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MARGARET 


WORKS BY H. RIDER HAGGARD 


PARLIAMENTARY BLUE-BOOK 


Report to H.M.’s Government on the Salvation Army Colonies in 
the United States, with Scheme of National Land Settlement. [Cd. 
2562.] 

POLITICAL HISTORY 
Cetewayo and his White Neighbours. 

WORKS ON AGRICULTURE, COUNTRY LIFE, AND 
SOCIOLOGY 

Rural England (2 vols.). A Farmer’s Year. 

The Poor and the Land. A Gardener’s Year. 


BOOK OF TRAVEL 
A Winter Pilgrimage. 


NOVELS 


Dawn. 

The Witch’s Head. 
Jess. 

Colonel Quaritch, V.C. 


Beatrice. 

Joan Haste. 
Doctor Theme. 
Stella Fregelius. 


The Way of the Spirit. 
ROMANCES 


King Solomon’s Mines. 
She. 

Allan Quatermain. 
Maiwa’s Revenge. 

Mr. Meeson’s Will. 
Allan’s Wife. 
Cleopatra. 

Eric Brighteyes. 

Nada the Lily. 

The Wizard. 


Heart. 

Lysbeth. 

Pearl Maiden. 

The Brethren. 

Ayesha: The Return of She. 


Montezuma’s Daughter. 

The People of the Mist. 

Heart of the World. 

Swallow. 

Elissa — Black Heart and White 


The Spirit of Bambatse. 

{In collaboration with Ajjdrew Lang): 
The World’s Desire. 





\ 

) 




4 

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MARGARET APPEARED DESCENDING THE BROAD OAK STAIRS 


MARGARET 


BY 

H. RIDER* 'HAqGAR'D 

Author of^Shcy" “ Ayeshoy" ** Kin<g Solomon^ s Mines y' Allan 
S^uatermainy' etc.y etc. 


NEW YORK 

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 

91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE 
1907 


Copyright, 1907 
By H. Rider Haggard 




Library of cowgress 

fwo CoDie^ rtijceived 

OCT 1907 

^Cofwriflt't ti'try 
CLASS ^ XXc, No. 
COPY A. 



The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass, U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I 

How Peter Met the Spaniard . 






I 

II 

John Casteel 






i6 

III 

Peter Gathers Violets 






29 

IV 

Lovers Dear 






43 

V 

Casteel’s Secret 






57 

VI 

Farewell . . . \ . 






70 

VII 

News from Spain 






82 

VIII 

D ’Aguilar Speaks 






94 

IX 

The Snare 






log 

X 

The Chase 






124 

XI 

The Meeting on the Sea 






138 

XII 

Father Henriques .... 






147 

XIII 

The Adventure at the Inn 






162 

XIV 

Inez and her Garden .... 






177 

XV 

Peter Plays a Part .... 






191 

XVI 

Betty Shows her Teeth . 






205 

XVII 

The Plot 






218 

XVIII 

The Holy Hermandad 






230 

XIX 

Betty Pays her Debts 






245 

XX 

Isabella of Spain 






260 

XXI 

Betty States her Case 






274 

XXII 

The Doom of John Castell . 






292 

XXIII 

Father Henriques and the Baker’s 

Oven 




304 

XXIV 

The Falcon Stoops 






318 

XXV 

How THE Margaret Won out to Sea 

, , 




335 



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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


MARGARET APPEARED DESCENDING THE BROAD OAK STAIRS 

Frontispiece 

TO FACE PAGE 

“A DOVE, COMRADES! — A DOVE!*' HE SHOUTED .... 9 

HE RETURNED PRESENTLY WITH A LETTER 26 

CASTELL DECLARES HIMSELF A JEW 6 1 

“YOU MEAN THAT YOU WISH TO MURDER ME” ... . 67 

IN ANOTHER MOMENT THAT STEEL WOULD HAVE PIERCED 

HIS HEART 12 1 

THE GALE CAUGHT HIM AND BLEW HIM TO AND FRO . 139 

“LADY,” HE SAID, “THIS IS NO DEED OF MINE” .... 146 

A CRUEL LOOKING KNIFE AND A NAKED ARM PROJECTED 

THROUGH THE PANELLING 172 

“MY NAME IS INEZ. YOU WANDER STILL, SENOR” . . .182 

“THERE ARE OTHERS WHERE THEY CAME FROM” ... 217 

“TO-DAY I DARE TO HOPE IT MAY BE OTHERWISE” . . 222 

“I CUT HIM DOWN, AND BY MISFORTUNE KILLED HIM”. 267 
“WAY! MAKE WAY FOR THE MARCHIONESS OF MORELLA” 279 
“ WE ARE PLAYERS IN A STRANGE GAME, MY LADY MAR- 
GARET” 322 

“YOU WILL HAVE TO FIGHT ME FIRST, PETER” . . . .'332 


\ 



MARGARET 


CHAPTER I 

HOW PETER MET THE SPANIARD 

It was a spring afternoon in the sixth year of the reign 
of King Henry VII of England. There had been a great 
show in London, for that day his Grace opened the newly 
convened Parhament, and announced to his faithful 
people — who received the news with much cheering, 
since war is ever popular at first — his intention of in- 
vading France, and of leading the English armies in 
person. In Parliament itself, it is true, the general en- 
thusiasm was somewhat dashed when allusion was made 
to the finding of the needful funds; but the crowds without, 
formed for the most part of persons who would not be 
called upon to pay the money, did not suffer that side of 
the question to trouble them. So when their gracious 
liege appeared, surrounded by his glittering escort of 
nobles and men-at-arms, they threw their caps into the 
air, and shouted themselves hoarse. 

The king himself, although he was still young in years, 
already a weary-looking man with a fine, pinched face, 
smiled a little sarcastically at their clamor; but, remem- 
bering how glad he should be to hear it who still sat 
upon a somewhat doubtful throne, said a few soft words, 
and sending for two or three of the leaders of the people. 


2 


MARGARET 


gave them his royal hand, and suffered certain children 
to touch his robe that they might be cured of the Evil. 
Then, having paused a while to receive petitions from 
poor folk, which he handed to one of his officers to be 
read, amidst renewed shouting he passed on to the great 
feast that was made ready in his palace of Westminster. 

Among those who rode near to him was the ambassador, 
de Ayala, accredited to the English Court by the Spanish 
sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella, and his following of 
splendidly attired lords and secretaries. That Spain was 
much in favor there was evident from his place in the 
procession. How could it be otherwise, indeed, seeing 
that already, four years or more before, at the age of 
twelve months. Prince Arthur, the eldest son of the king, 
had been formally affianced to the Infanta Catherine, 
daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, aged one year and 
nine months? For in those days it was thought well 
that the affections of princes and princesses should be 
directed early into such paths as their royal parents and 
governors considered likely to prove most profitable to 
themselves. 

At the ambassador’s left hand, mounted on a fine black 
horse, and dressed richly, but simply, in black velvet, 
with a cap of the same material in which was fastened a 
single pearl, rode a tall cavalier. He was about five-and- 
thirty years of age, and very handsome, having piercing 
black eyes and a stem, clean-cut face. In every man, it 
is said, there can be found a resemblance, often far off 
and fanciful enough, to some beast or bird or other crea- 
ture, and certainly in this case it was not hard to discover. 
The man resembled an eagle which, whether by chance or 
design, was the crest he bore upon his servants’ livery 
and the trappings of his horse. The unflinching eyes, 


HOW PETER MET THE SPANIARD 


3 


the hooked nose, the air of pride and mastery, the thin, 
long hand, the quick grace of movement, all suggested 
that king of birds, suggested also, as Jjis motto said, that 
what he sought he would find, and what he found he 
would keep. Just now he was watching the interview 
between the English king and the leaders of the crowd 
whom his Grace had been pleased to summon, with an 
air of mingled amusement and contempt. 

“You find the scene strange, Marquis,” said the am- 
bassador, glancing at him shrewdly. 

“ Senor, here in England, if it pleases your Excellency,” 
he answered gravely, “Senor d’Aguilar. The marquis 
you mentioned fives in Spain — an accredited envoy to 
the Moors of Granada; the Senor d’Aguilar, a humble 
servant of Holy Church,” and he crossed himself, “travels 
abroad — upon the Church’s business, and that of their 
Majesties’.” 

“And his own too, sometimes, I believe,” answered the 
ambassador drily. “But to be frank, what I do not 
understand about you, Senor d’Aguilar, as I know that 
you have abandoned political ambitions, is why you do 
not enter my profession, and put on the black robe once 
and for all. What did I say — black? With your op-- 
portunities and connections it might be red by now, 
with a hat to match.” 

The Senor d’Aguilar smiled a little as he replied. 

“You said, I think, that sometimes I travel on my own 
business. Well, there is your answer. You are right, I 
have abandoned worldly ambitions — most of them. 
They are troublesome, and for some people, if they be 
bom too high and yet not altogether rightly, very dan- 
gerous. The acorn of ambition often grows into an oak 
from which men hang.” 


4 


MARGARET 


“Or into a log upon which men’s heads can be cut off. 
Senor, I congratulate you. You have the wisdom that 
grasps the substance and lets the shadows flit. It is 
really very rare.” 

“You asked why I do not change the cut of my gar- 
ments,” went on d’Aguilar, without noticing the interrup- 
tion. “ Excellency, to be frank, because of my own 
business. I have failings like other men. For instance, 
wealth is that substance of which you spoke, rule is the 
shadow; he who has the wealth has the real rule. Again, 
bright eyes may draw me, or a hate may seek its slaking, 
and these things do not suit robes, black or red.” 

“Yet many such things have been done by those who 
wore them,” replied the ambassador with meaning. 

“Aye, Excellency, to the discredit of Holy Church, as 
you, a priest, know better than most men. Let the earth 
be evil as it must; but let the Church be like heaven above 
it, pure, unstained, the vault of prayer, the house of 
mercy and of righteous judgment, wherein walks no sinner 
such as I,” and again he crossed himself. 

There was a ring of earnestness in the speaker’s voice 
that caused de Ayala, who knew something of his private 
reputation, to look at him curiously. 

“A true fanatic, and therefore to us a useful man,” he 
thought to himself, “though one who knows how to make 
the best of two worlds as well as most of them”; but aloud 
he said, “No wonder that our Church rejoices in such a 
son, and that her enemies tremble when he lifts her sword. 
But, Senor, you have not told me what you think of all 
this ceremony and people.” 

“The people I know well. Excellency, for I dwelt 
among them in past years and speak their language; and 
that is why I have left Granada to look after itself for a | 


HOW PETER MET THE SPANIARD 


5 


while, and am here to-day, to watch and make report ” 

He checked himself, then added, “As for the ceremony, 
were I a king I would have it otherwise. Why, in that 
house just now those vulgar Commons — for so they call 
them, do they not ? — almost threatened their royal master 
when he humbly craved a tithe of the country’s wealth to 
fight the country’s war. Yes, and I saw him turn pale 
and tremble at the rough voices, as though their echoes 
shook his throne. I tell you. Excellency, that the time 
will come in this land when those Commons will be king. 
Look now at that fellow whom his Grace holds by the 
hand, calling him ‘sir’ and ‘master,’ and yet whom he 
knows to be, as I do, a heretic, a Jew in disguise, whose 
sins, if he had his rights, should be purged by fire. Why, 
to my knowledge last night, that Israelite said things 
against the Church ” 

“Whereof the Church, or its servant, doubtless made 
notes to be used when the time comes,” broke in de Ayala. 
“But the audience is done, and his Highness beckons us 
forward to the feast, where there will be no heretics to 
vex us and as it is Lent not much to eat. Come, Senor! 
for we stop the way.” 

Three hours had gone by, and the sun sank redly, for 
even at that spring season it was cold upon the marshy 
lands of Westminster, and there was frost in the air. On 
the open space opposite to the banqueting-hall, in front 
of which were gathered squires and grooms with horses, 
stood and walked many citizens of London, who, their 
day’s work done, came to see the king pass by in state. 
Among these were a man and a lady, the latter attended 
by a handsome young woman, who were all three suffi- 
ciently striking in appearance to attract some notice in 


6 


MARGARET 


the throng. The man, a person of about thirty years of 
age, dressed in a merchant’s robe of cloth, and wearing a 
knife in his girdle, seemed over six feet in height, while 
his companion, in her flowing, fur-trimmed cloak, was, 
for a woman, also of unusual stature. He was not, strictly 
speaking, a handsome man, being somewhat too high of 
forehead and prominent of feature; moreover, one of his 
clean-shaven cheeks, the right, was marred by the long, 
red scar of a sword-cut which stretched from the temple 
to the strong chin. His face, however, was open and 
manly, if rather stem, and the grey eyes were steady and 
frank. It was not the face of a merchant, but rather that 
of one of good degree, accustomed to camps and war. 
For the rest, his figure was well-built and active, and his 
voice when he spoke, which was seldom, clear and distinct 
to loudness, but cultivated and pleasant — again, not the 
voice of a merchant. 

Of the lady’s figure little could be seen because of the 
long cloak that hid it, but the face which appeared within 
its hood when she turned and the dying sunlight filled 
her eyes was lovely indeed, for from her birth to her 
death-day Margaret Castell — fair Margaret, as she was 
called — had this gift to a degree that is rarely granted to 
woman. Rounded and flower-like was that face, most 
delicately tinted also, with rich and curling lips and a 
broad, snow-white brow. But the wonder of it, what 
distinguished her above everything else from other beau- 
tiful women of her time, was to be found in her eyes, for 
these were not blue or grey, as might have been expected 
from her general coloring, but large, black, and lustrous, 
soft, too, as the eyes of a deer, and overhung by curving 
lashes of an ebon black. The effect of these eyes of hers 
shining above those tinted cheeks and beneath the brow 


HOW PETER MET THE SPANIARD 


7 


of ivory whiteness was so strange as to be almost startling. 
They caught the beholder and held him, as might the 
sudden sight of a rose in snow, or the morning star hanging 
luminous among the mists of dawn. Also, although they 
were so gentle and modest, if that beholder chanced to be 
a man on the good side of fifty it was often long before 
he could forget them, especially if he were privileged to 
see how well they matched the hair of chestnut, shading 
into black, that waved above them and fell, tress upon 
tress, upon the shapely shoulders and down to the slender 
waist. 

Peter Brome, for he was so named, looked a little 
anxiously about him at the crowd, then, turning, addressed 
Margaret in his strong, clear voice. 

“There are rough folk around,’^ he said; “do you think 
you should stop here? Your father might be angered. 
Cousin.” 

Here it may be explained that in reality their kinship 
was of the slightest, a mere dash of blood that came to 
her through her mother. Still they called each other 
thus, since it is a convenient title that may mean much 
or nothing. 

“Oh! why not?” she answered in her rich, slow tones, 
that had in them some foreign quality, something soft 
and sweet as the caress of a southern wind at night. 
“With you. Cousin,” and she glanced approvingly at his 
stalwart, soldier- like form, “I have nothing to fear from 
men, however rough, and I do greatly want to see the 
king close by, and so does Betty. Don’t you, Betty?” 
and she turned to her companion. 

Betty Dene, whom she addressed, was also a cousin of 
Margaret, though only a distant connection of Peter 
Brome. She was of very good blood, but her father, a 


8 


MARGARET 


wild and dissolute man, had broken her mother’s heart, 
and, like that mother, died early, leaving Betty dependent 
upon Margaret’s mother, in whose house she had been 
brought up. This Betty was in her way remarkable, 
both in body and mind. Fair, splendidly formed, strong, 
with wide, bold, blue eyes, and ripe red hps, such was 
the fashion of her. In speech she was careless and vig- 
orous. Fond of the society of men, and fonder still of 
their admiration, for she was romantic and vain, Betty 
at the age of five-and-twenty was yet an honest girl, and 
well able to take care of herself, as more than one of her 
admirers had discovered. Although her position was 
humble, at heart she was very proud of her lineage, 
ambitious also, her great desire being to raise herself by 
marriage back to the station from which her father’s 
folly had cast her down — no easy business for one 
who passed as a waiting-woman and was without 
fortune. 

For the rest, she loved and admired her cousin Margaret 
more than any one on earth, w^hile Peter she liked and 
respected, none the less perhaps because, try as she would 
— and, being nettled, she did try hard enough — her 
beauty and other charms left him quite unmoved. 

In answer to Margaret’s question she laughed and 
answered : 

“Of course. We are all too busy up in Holbom to 
get the chance of so many shows that I should wish to 
miss one. Still, Master Peter is very wise, and I am 
always counselled to obey him. Also, it will soon be 
dark.” 

“Well, well,” said Margaret with a sigh and a little 
shrug of her shoulders, “as you are both against me, 
perhaps we had best be going. Next time I come out 




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“A DOVE COMRADES! — A DOVE!” HE SHOUTED 


HOW PETER MET THE SPANIARD 


9 

walking, cousin Peter, it shall be with some one who is 
more kind.” 

Then she turned and began to make her way as quickly 
as she could through the thickening crowd. Finding this 
difficult, before Peter could stop her, for she was very 
swift in her movements, Margaret bore to the right, 
entering the space immediately in front of the banqueting- 
hall where the grooms with horses and soldiers were 
assembled awaiting their lords, for here there was more 
room to walk. For a few moments Peter and Betty were 
unable to escape from the mob which closed in behind 
her, and thus it came about that Margaret found herself 
alone among these people, in the midst, indeed, of the 
guard of the Spanish ambassador de Ayala, men who 
were notorious for their lawlessness, for they reckoned 
upon their master’s privilege to protect them. Also, for 
the most part, they were just then more or less in liquor. 

One of these fellows, a great, red-haired Scotchman, 
whom the priest-diplomatist had brought with him from 
that country, where he had also been ambassador, sud- 
denly perceiving a woman who appeared to be young and 
pretty before him, determined to examine her more closely, 
and to this end made use of a rude strategem. Pretending 
to stumble, he grasped at Margaret’s cloak as though to 
save himself, and with a wrench tore it open, revealing 
her beautiful face and graceful figure. 

“A dove, comrades! — a dove!” he shouted in a voice 
thick with drink, “who has flown here to give me a kiss.” 
And, casting his long arms about her, he strove to draw 
her to him. 

“Peter! Help me, Peter!” cried Margaret as she 
struggled fiercely in his grip. 

“No, no, if you want a saint, my bonny lass,” said the 


lO 


MARGARET 


drunken Scotchman, “Andrew is as good as Peter, at 
which witticism those of the others who understood him 
laughed, for the man’s name was Andrew. 

Next instant they laughed again, and to the ruffian 
Andrew it seemed as though suddenly he had fallen into 
the power of a whirlwind. At least Margaret was 
wrenched away from him, while he spun round and 
round to fall violently upon his face. 

“That’s Peter,” exclaimed one of the soldiers in Spanish. 

“Yes,” answered another, “and a patron saint worth 
having while a third pulled the recumbent Andrew to 
his feet. - 

The man looked like a devil. His cap was gone, and 
his fiery red hair was smeared with mud. Moreover, his 
nose had been broken on a cobble-stone, and blood from 
it poured all over him, while his little, red eyes glared like 
a ferret’s, and his face turned a dirty white with pain and 
rage. Howling out something in Scotch, of a sudden he 
drew his sword and rushed straight at his adversary, 
purposing to kill him. 

Now, Peter had no sword, but only his short knife, 
which he found no time to draw. In his hand, however, 
he carried a stout holly staff shod with iron, and while 
Margaret clasped her hands and Betty screamed, with 
this he caught the descending blow, and, furious as it 
was, parried and turned it. Then, before the man could 
strike again, that staff was up, and Peter had leapt upon 
him. It fell with fearful force, breaking the Scotchman’s 
shoulder and sending him reeling back. 

“ Shrewdly struck, Peter! Well done, Peter!” shouted 
the spectators. 

But Peter neither saw nor heard them, for he was mad 
with rage at the insult that had been offered to Margaret. 


HOW PETER MET THE SPANIARD 


II 


Up flew the iron-tipped staff again, and down it came, 
this time full on Andrew’s head, which it shattered Hke 
an egg-shell, so that the brute fell backwards, dead. 

For a moment there was silence, for the joke had taken 
a tragic turn. Then one of the Spaniards said, glancing 
at the prostrate form: 

“Name of God! our mate is done for. That merchant 
hits hard.” 

Instantly there arose a murmur among the dead man’s 
comrades, and one of them cried: 

“Cut him down!” 

Understanding that he was to be set on, Peter sprang 
forward and snatched the Scotchman’s sword from the 
ground where it had fallen, at the same time dropping 
his staff and drawing his dagger with the left hand. Now 
he was well armed, and looked so fierce and soldier-like 
as he faced his foes, that, although four or five blades 
were out, they held back. Then Peter spoke for the first 
time, for he knew that against so many he had no 
chance. 

“Englishmen,” he cried in ringing tones, but without 
shifting his head or glance, “will you see me murdered 
by these Spanish dogs?” 

There was a moment’s pause, then a voice behind 
cried: 

“By God! not I,” and a brawny Kentish man-at-arms 
ranged up beside him, his cloak thrown over his left arm, 
and his sword in his right hand. 

“Nor I,” said another. “Peter Brome and I have 
fought together before.” 

“Nor I,” shouted a third, “for we were bom in the 
same Essex hundred. 

And so it went on, until there were as many stout 


12 


MARGARET 


Englishmen at his side as there were Spaniards and 
Scotchmen before him. 

“That will do,” said Peter, “we want no more than 
man to man. Look to the women, comrades, behind 
there. Now, you murderers, if you would see Enghsh 
sword-play, come on, or, if you are afraid, let us go in 
peace.” 

“Yes, come on, you foreign cowards,” shouted the 
mob, who did not love these turbulent and privileged , 
guards. 

By now the Spanish blood was up, and the old race- 
hatred awake. In broken English the sergeant of the 
guard shouted out some filthy insult about Margaret, and 
called upon his followers to “cut the throats of the London 
swine.” Swords shone red in the red sunset light, men , 
shifted their feet and bent forward, and in another instant •; 
a great and bloody fray would have begun. | 

But it did not begin, for at that moment a tall senor, I 
who had been standing in the shadow and watching all < 
that passed, walked between the opposing lines, as he ] 
went, striking up the swords with his arm. i 

“Plave done,” said d’Aguilar quietly, for it was he, * 
speaking in Spanish. “You fools! do you want to see ^ 
every Spaniard in London tom to pieces ? As for that i 
dmnken brute,” and he touched the corpse of Andrew | 
with his foot, “he brought his death upon himself. More- J 
over, he was not a Spaniard, there is no blood quarrel. | 
Come, obey me! or must I tell you who I am?” j 

“We know you. Marquis,” said the leader in a cowed I 
voice. “Sheath your swords, comrades; after all, it is i 
no affair of ours.” 

The men obeyed somewhat unwillingly; but at this 
moment arrived the ambassador de Ayala, very angry, 


HOW PETER MET THE SPANIARD 


13 


for he had heard of the death of his servant, demanding, 
in a loud voice, that the man who had killed him should 
be given up. 

‘‘We will not give him up to a Spanish priest,^’ shouted 
the mob. “Come and take him if you want him,” and 
once more the tumult grew, while Peter and his com- 
panions made ready to fight. 

Fighting there would have been also, notwithstanding 
all that d’Aguilar could do to prevent it; but of a sudden 
the noise began to die away, and a hush fell upon the 
place. Then between the uplifted weapons walked a 
short, richly clad man, who turned suddenly and faced 
the mob. It was King Henry himself. 

“Who dare to draw swords in my streets, before my 
very palace doors?” he asked in a cold voice. 

A dozen hands pointed at Peter. 

“Speak,” said the king to him. 

“Margaret, come here,” cried Peter; and the girl was 
thrust forward to him. 

“Sire,” he said, “that man,” and he pointed to the 
corpse of Andrew, “tried to do wrong to this maiden, 
John Castell’s child. I, her cousin, threw him down. 
He drew his sword and came at me, and I killed him 
with my staff. See, it lies there. Then the Spaniards — 
his comrades — would have cut me down, and I called 
for English help. Sire, that is all.” 

The king looked him up and down. 

“A merchant by your dress,” he said; “but a soldier 
by your mien. How are you named?” 

“Peter Brome, Sire.” 

“Ah! There was a certain Sir Peter Brome who fell 
at Bosworth Field — not fighting for me,” and he smiled. 
“Did you know him perchance?” 


14 


MARGARET 


“He was my father, Sire, and I saw him slain — aye, 
and slew the slayer.” 

“Well can I beheve it,” answered Henry, looking at 
him. “But how comes it that Peter Brome’s son, who 
wears that battle scar across his face, is clad in merchant’s 
woollen?” 

“Sire,” said Peter coolly,^“my father sold his lands, 
lent his all to the Crown, and I have never rendered the 
account. Therefore I must live as I can.” 

The king laughed outright as he replied: 

“I like you, Peter Brome, though doubtless you hate 
me.” 

“Not so, Sire. While Richard lived I fought for 
Richard. Richard is gone, and, if need be, I would fight 
for Henry, who am an Englishman, and ser\^e England’s 
king.” 

“Well said, and I may have need of you yet, nor do I 
bear you any grudge. But, I forgot, is it thus that you 
would fight for me, by causing riot in my streets and 
bringing me into trouble with my good friends the 
Spaniards?” 

“Sire, you know the story.” 

“I know your story, but who bears witness to it? Do 
you, maiden, Castell the merchant’s daughter?” 

“Aye, Sire. The man whom my cousin killed mal- 
treated me, whose only wrong was that I waited to see 
your Grace pass by. Look on my tom cloak.” 

“Little wonder that he killed him for the sake of those 
eyes of yours, maiden. But this witness may be tainted.” 
And again he smiled, adding, “Is there no other?” 

Betty advanced to speak, but d’Aguilar, stepping for- 
ward, lifted his bonnet from his head, bowed and said in 
English : 


HOW PETER MET THE SPANIARD 


15 


“Your Grace, there is; I saw it all. This gallant 
gentleman had no blame. It was the servants of my 
countryman de Ayala who were to blame, at any rate at 
first, and afterwards came the trouble.’’ 

Now the ambassador de Ayala broke in, claiming satis- 
faction for the killing of his man, for he was still very 
angry, and saying, that if it were not given, he would 
report the matter to their Majesties of Spain, and let 
them know how their servants were treated in London. 

At these words Henry grew grave, who, above all things, 
wished to give no offence to Ferdinand and Isabella. 

“You have done an ill day’s work, Peter Brome,” he 
said, “and one of which my attorney must consider. 
Meanwhile, you will be best in safe keeping,” and he 
turned as though to order his arrest. 

“Sire,” said Peter, “I live at Master Castell’s house in 
Holbom, nor shall I run away.” 

“Who will answer for that,” said the king, “or that you 
will not make more riots on your road thither?” 

“I will answer, your Grace,” said d’Aguilar quietly, 
“if this lady will permit that I escort her and her cousin 
home. Also,” he added in a low voice, “it seems to me 
that to hale him to a prison would be more like to breed 
a riot than to let him go.” 

Henry glanced round him at the great crowd who were 
gathered watching this scene, and saw something in their 
faces which caused him to agree with d’Aguilar. 

“So be it. Marquis,” he said. “I have your word, 
and that of Peter Brome, that he will be forthcoming if 
called upon. Let that dead man be laid in the Abbey 
till to-morrow, when this matter shall be inquired of. 
Excellency, give me your arm; I have greater questions 
of which I wish to speak with you ere we sleep.” 


CHAPTER II 


JOHN CASTELL 

When the king was gone, Peter turned to those men 
who had stood by him and thanked them very heartily. 
Then he said to Margaret: 

“Come, Cousin, that is over for this time, and you have 
had your wish and seen his Grace. Now, the sooner you 
are safe at home, the better I shall be pleased.” 

“Certainly,” she replied. “I have seen more than I 
desire to see again. But before we go let us thank this 
Spanish senor ” and she paused. 

“D’Aguilar, Lady, or at least that name will serve,” 
said the Spaniard in his cultured voice, bowing low before 
her, his eyes fixed all the while upon her beautiful face. 

“Senor d’Aguilar, I thank you, and so does my cousin, 
Peter Brome, whose life perhaps you saved — don’t you, 
Peter? Oh! and so will my father.” 

“Yes,” answered Peter, somewhat sulkily, “I thank 
him very much; though as for my life, I trusted to my 
own arm and to those of my friends there. Good night, 
Sir.” 

“I fear. Sir,” answered d’Aguilar with a smile, “that 
we cannot part just yet. You forget, I have become 
bond for you, and must therefore accompany you to where 

i6 


JOHN CASTELL 


17 


you live, that I may certify the place. Also, perhaps, it 
is safest, for these countrymen of mine are revengeful, 
and, were I not with you, might waylay you.’’ 

Now, seeing from his face that Peter was still bent 
upon declining this escort, Margaret interposed quickly. 

“Yes, that is wisest, also my father would wish it. 
Sehor, I will show you the way,” and, accompanied by 
d’Aguilar, who gallantly offered her his arm, she stepped 
forward briskly, leaving Peter to follow with her cousin 
Betty. 

Thus they walked in the twilight across the fields and 
through the narrow streets beyond that lay between 
Westminster and Holborn. In front trippecj Margaret 
beside her stately cavalier, with whom she was soon talk- 
ing fast enough in Spanish, a tongue which,^ for reasons 
that shall be explained, she knew well, while behind, the 
Scotchman’s sword still in his hand, and the handsome 
Betty on his arm, came Peter Brome in the worst of 
humors. 

John Castell lived in a large, rambling, many-gabled 
house, just off the main thoroughfare of Holborn, that 
had at the back of it a garden surrounded by a high wall. 
Of this ancient place the front part served as a shop, a 
store for merchandise, and an office, for Castell was a 
very wealthy trader — how wealthy none quite knew — 
who exported woollen and other goods to Spain under the 
royal license, bringing thence in his own ships fine, raw 
Spanish wool to be manufactured in England, and with it 
velvet, silks, and wine from Granada; also beautiful 
inlaid armor of Toledo steel. Sometimes, too, he dealt 
in silver and copper from the mountain mines, for Castell 
was a banker as well as a merchant, or rather what 
answered to that description in those days. 


i8 


MARGARET 


It was said that beneath his shop were dungeon-like 
store- vaults, built of thick cemented stone, with iron doors 
through which no thief could break, and filled with pre- 
cious things. However this might be, certainly in that 
great house, which in the time of the Plantagenets had 
been the fortified palace of a noble, existed chambers 
whereof he alone knew the secret, since no one else, not 
even his daughter or Peter, ever crossed their threshold. 
Also, there slept in it a number of men-servants, very 
stout fellows, who wore knives or swords beneath their 
cloaks, and watched at night to see that all was well. 
For the rest, the living-rooms of this house where Castell, 
Margaret his daughter, and Peter dwelt, were large and 
comfortable, being new panelled with oak after the 
Tudor fashion, and having deep windows that looked out 
upon the garden. 

When Peter and Betty reached the door, not that which 
led into the shop, but another, it was to find that Mar- 
garet and d’Aguilar, who were walking very quickly, 
must have already passed it, since it was shut, and they 
had vanished. At his knock — a hard one — a serving- 
man opened, and Peter strode through the vestibule, or 
ante- chamber, into the hall, where for the most part they 
ate and sat, for thence he heard the sound of voices. It 
was a fine room, lit bj hanging lamps of olive oil, and 
having a large, open hearth where a fire burned pleasantly, 
while the oaken table in front of it was set for supper. 
Margaret, who had thrown off her cloak, stood warming 
herself at the fire, and the Senor d’Aguilar, comfortably 
seated in a big chair, which he seemed to have known for 
years, leaned back, his bonnet in his hand, and watched 
her idly. 

Facing them stood John Castell, a stout, dark-bearded 


JOHN CASTELL 


19 


man of between fifty and sixty years of age, with a clever, 
clean-cut face and piercing black eyes. Now, in the 
privacy of his home, he was very richly attired in a robe 
trimmed with the costliest fur, and fastened with a gold 
chain that had a jewel on its clasp. When Castell served 
in his shop or sat in his counting-house no merchant in 
London was more plainly dressed; but at night, loving 
magnificence at heart, it was his custom thus to indulge 
in it, even when there were none to see him. From the 
way in which he stood, and the look upon his face, Peter 
knew at once that he was much disturbed. Hearing his 
step, Castell wheeled round and addressed him at once 
in the clear, decided voice which was his characteristic. 

“What is this I am told, Peter? A man killed by you 
before the palace gates ? A broil ! A public riot in which 
things went near to great bloodshed between the English, 
with you at the head of them, and the bodyguard of his 
Excellency, de Ayala. You arrested by the king, and 
bailed out by this senor. Is all this true?” 

“Quite,” answered Peter calmly. 

“Then I am ruined; we are all ruined. Oh! it was an 
evil hour when I took one of your bloodthirsty trade into 
my house. What have you to say ? ” 

“Only that I want my supper,” said Peter. “Those 
who began the story can finish it, for I think their tongues 
are nimbler than my own,” and he glanced wrathfully 
at Margaret, who laughed outright, while even the solemn 
d’ Aguilar smiled. 

“Father,” broke in Margaret, “do not be angry with 
cousin Peter, whose only fault is that he hits too hard. 
It is I who am to blame, for I wished to stop to see the 
king against his will and Betty’s, and then — then that 
brute,” and her eyes filled with tears of shame and anger. 


20 


MARGARET 


“caught hold of me, and Peter threw him down, and 
afterwards, when he attacked him with a sword, Peter 
killed him with his staff, and — all the rest happened.’’ 

“It was beautifully done,” said d’Aguilar in his soft 
voice and foreign accent. “I saw it all, and made sure 
that you were dead. The parry I understood, but the 
way you got your smashing blow in before he could thrust 
again — ah! that ” 

“Well, well,” said Castell, “let us eat first and talk 
afterwards. Senor d’Aguilar, you will honor my poor 
board, will you not, though it is hard to come from a 
king’s feast to a merchant’s fare.” 

“It is I who am honored,” answered d’Aguilar; “and 
as for the feast, his Grace is sparing in this Lenten season. 
At least, I could get little to eat, and, therefore, like the 
senor Peter, I am starved.” 

Castell rang a silver bell which stood near by, whereon 
servants brought in the meal, which was excellent and 
plentiful. While they were setting it on the table, the 
merchant went to a cubpoard in the wainscoting, and 
took thence two flasks, which he uncorked himself with 
care, saying that he would give the senor some wine of 
his own country. This done, he said a Latin grace and 
crossed himself, an example which d’Aguilar followed, 
remarking that he was glad to find that he was in the 
house of a good Christian. 

“What else did you think that I should be?” asked 
Castell, glancing at him shrewdly. 

“I did not think at all, Senor,” he answered; “but, 
alas 1 every one is not a Christian. In Spain, for instance, 
we have many Moors and — Jews.” 

“I know,” said Castell, “for I trade with them both.” 

“Then you have never visited Spain?” 


JOHN CASTELL 


21 


‘‘No; I am an English merchant. But try that wine, 
Senor; it came from Granada, and they say that it is 
good.’’ 

D ’Aguilar tasted it, then drank off his glass. 

“It is good, indeed,” he said; “I have not its equal in 
my own cellars there.” 

“Do you, then, live in Granada, Senor d’Aguilar?” 
asked Castell. 

“Sometimes, when I am not travelling. I have a house 
there which my mother left me. She loved the town, 
and bought an old palace from the Moors. Would you 
not like to see Granada, Senora?” he asked, turning to 
Margaret as though to change the subject. “There is a 
wonderful building there called the Alhambra; it over- 
looks my house.” 

“My daughter is never likely to see it,” broke in Castell; 
“I do not purpose that she should visit Spain.” 

“Ah! you do not purpose; but who knows? God and 
His saints alone,” and again he crossed himself, then fell 
to describing the beauties of Granada. 

He was a fine and ready talker, and his voice was very 
pleasant, so Margaret listened attentively enough, watching 
his face, and forgetting to eat, while her father and Peter 
watched them both. At length the meal came to an end, 
and when the serving-men had cleared away the dishes, 
and they were alone, Castell said: 

“Now, kinsman Peter, tell me your story.” 

So Peter told him, in few words, yet omitting nothing. 

“I find no blame in you,” said the merchant when he 
had done, “nor do I see how you could have acted other- 
wise than you did. It is Margaret whom I blame, for I 
only gave her leave to walk with you and Betty by the 
river, and bade her beware of crowds.” 


22 


MARGARET 


“Yes, father, the fault is mine, and for it I pray 
your pardon,” said Margaret, so meekly that her father 
could not find the heart to scold her as he had meant 
to do. 

“You should ask Peter’s pardon,” he muttered, “see- 
ing that he is like to be laid by the heels in a dungeon 
over this business, yes, and put upon his trial for causing 
the man’s death. Remember, he was in the service of 
de Ayala, with whom our liege wishes to stand well, and 
de Ayala, it seems, is very angry.” 

Now Margaret grew frightened, for the thought that 
harm might come to Peter cut her heart. The color left 
her cheek, and once again her eyes swam with tears. 

“Oh! say not so,” she exclaimed. “Peter, will you 
not fly at once?” 

“By n0 means,” he answered decidedly. “Did I not 
say it to the king, and is not this foreign lord bond for 
me?” 

“What can be done?” she went on; then, as a thought 
struck her, turned to d’Aguilar, and, clasping her slender 
hands, looked pleadingly into his face and asked: “Senor, 
you who are so powerful, and the friend of great people, 
will you not help us?” 

“Am I not here to do so, Senora? Although I think 
that a man who can call half London to his back, as I 
saw your cousin do, needs little help from me. But 
listen, my country has two ambassadors at this Court — 
de Ayala, whom he has offended, and Doctor de Puebla, 
the friend of the king; and, strangely enough, de Puebla 
does not love de Ayala. Yet he does love money, which 
perhaps will be forthcoming. Now, if a charge is to be 
laid over this brawl, it will probably be done, not by the 
churchman, de Ayala, but through de Puebla, who knows 


JOHN CASTELL 


23 

your laws and Court, and — do you understand me, 
Senor Castell?’^ 

“Yes,’^ answered the merchant; ‘‘but how an\I to get 
at de Puebla? If I were to offer him money, he would 
only ask more.’^ 

“I see that you know his Excellency,” remarked 
d’ Aguilar drily. “You are right, no money must be 
offered; a present must be made after the pardon is de- 
livered — not before. Oh! de Puebla knows that John 
Castell’s word is as good in London as it is among the 
Jews and infidels of Granada and the merchants of 
Seville, at both of which places I have heard it spoken.” 

At this speech Castell’s eyelids flickered, but he only 
answered : 

“May be; but how shall I approach him, Senor?” 

“If you will permit me, that is my task. Now, to 
what amount will you go to save our friend here from 
inconvenience? Fifty gold angels?” 

“It is too much,” said Castell; “a knave like that is not 
worth ten. Indeed, he was the assailant, and nothing 
should be paid at all.” 

“Ah! Senor, the merchant is coming out in you; also the 
dangerous man who thinks that right should rule the world, 
not kings — I mean might. The knave is worth nothing, 
but de Puebla’s word in Henry’s ear is worth much.” 

“Fifty ^hgels be it then,” said Castell, “and I thank 
you, Senor, for your good offices. Will you take the 
money now?” 

“By no means; not till I bring the debt discharged. 
Senor, I will come again and let you know how matters 
stand. Farewell, fair maiden; may the saints intercede 
for that dead rogue who brought me into your company, 
and that of your father and your cousin of the quick eye 


24 


MARGARET 


and the stalwart arm! Till we meet again/ ^ and, still 
murmuring compliments, he bowed himself out of the 
room in charge of a man-servant. 

“Thomas,’’ said Castell to this servant when he re- 
turned, “you are a discreet fellow; put on your cap and 
cloak, follow that Spaniard, see where he lodges, and 
find out all you can about him. Go now, swiftly.” 

The man bowed and went, and presently Castell, 
listening, heard a side door shut behind him. Then he 
turned and said to the other two: 

“I do not like this business. I smell trouble in it, and 
I do not like the Spaniard either.” 

“He seems a very gallant gentleman, and high-born,” 
said Margaret. 

“Aye, very gallant — too gallant, and high-born — 
too high-born, unless I am mistaken. So gallant and 

so high-born ” And he checked himself, then added, 

“Daughter, in your wilfulness you have stirred a great 
rock. Go to your bed and pray God that it may not fall 
upon your house and crush it and us.” 

So Margaret crept away frightened, a little indignant 
also, for after all, what wrong had she done? And why 
should her father mistrust this splendid-looking Spanish 
cavalier ? 

When she was gone, Peter, who all this while had said 
little, looked up and asked straight out : ^ 

“What are you afraid of, Sir?” 

“Many things, Peter. First, that use will be made of 
this matter to extort much money from me, who am 
known to be rich, which is a sin best absolved by angels. 
Secondly, that if I make trouble about paying, other 
questions will be set afoot.” 

“What questions?” 


JOHN CASTELL 25 

“Have you ever heard of the new Christians, Peter, 
whom the Spaniards call Maranos?’^ 

He nodded. 

“Then you know that a Marano is a converted Jew. 
Now, as it chances — I tell you who do not break secrets 

— my father was a Marano. His name does not matter 

— it is best forgotten; but he fled from Spain to England 
for reasons of his own, and took that of the country whence 
he came — Castile, or Castell. Also, as it is not lawful 
for Jews to live in England, he became converted to the 
Christian faith — seek not to know his motives, they are 
buried with him. Moreover, he converted me, his only 
child, who was but ten years old, and cared little whether 
I swore by ‘Father Abraham’ or by the ‘Blessed Mary.’ 
The paper of my baptism lies in my strong-box still. 
Well, he was clever, and built up this business, and died 
unharmed five-and-twenty years ago, leaving me already 
rich. That same year I married an Englishwoman, your 
mother’s second cousin, and loved her and lived happily 
with her, and gave her all her heart could wish. But 
after Margaret’s birth, three-and-twenty years gone by, 
she never had her health, and eight years ago she died. 
You remember her, since she brought you here when you 
were a stout lad, and made me promise afterwards that I 
would always be your friend, for except your father. Sir 
Peter, none other of your well-born and ancient family 
were left. So when Sir Petc^r — against my counsel, 
staking his all upon that usurping rogue Richard, who 
had promised to advance him, and meanwhile took his 
money — was killed at Bosworth, leaving you landless, 
penniless, and out of favor, I offered you a home, and 
you, being a wise man, put off your mail and put on 
woollen and became a merchant’s partner, though your 


26 


MARGARET 


share of profit was but small. Now, again you have 
changed staff for steel,” and he glanced at the Scotch- 
man’s sword that still lay upon a side table, “and Mar- 
garet has loosed that rock of which I spoke to her.” 

“What is the rock. Sir?” 

“That Spaniard whom she brought home and found 
so fine.” 

“What of the Spaniard?” 

“Wait a while and I will tell you.” And, taking a 
lamp, he left the room, returning presently with a letter 
which was written in cipher, and translated upon another 
sheet in John Castell’s own hand. 

“This,” he said, “is from my partner and relative, 
Juan Bemaldez, a Marano, who lives at Seville, where 
Ferdinand and Isabella have their court. Among other 
matters he writes this : ^ I warn all brethren in England to 
be careful. I have it that a certain one whose name I 
will not mention even in cipher, a very powerful and 
high-born man, and, although he appears to be a pleasure- 
seeker only, and is certainly of a dissolute life, among the 
greatest bigots in all Spain, has been sent, or is shortly to 
be sent, from Granada, where he is stationed to watch 
the Moors, as an envoy to the Court of England to con- 
clude a secret treaty with its king. Under this treaty the 
names of rich Maranos that are already well known here 
are to be recorded, so that when the time comes, and the 
active persecution of Jews and Maranos begins, they may 
be given up and brought to Spain for trial before the 
Inquisition. Also he is to arrange that no Jew or Marano 
may be allowed to take refuge in England. This is for 
your information, that you may warn any whom it con- 
cerns.” 

“You think that d’Aguilar is this man?” asked Peter, 



HE RETURNED PRESENTLY WITH A LETTER 





JOHN CASTELL 27 

while Castell folded up the letter and hid it in the pocket 
of his robe. 

^‘I do; indeed I have heard already that a fox was on 
the prowl, and that men should look to their hen-houses. 
Moreover, did you note how he crossed himself like a 
priest, and what he said about being among good Chris- 
tians ? Also, it is Lent and a fast-day, and by ill-fortune, 
although none of us ate of it, there was meat upon the 
table, for as you know,’^ he added hurriedly, ‘‘I am not 
strict in such matters, who give little weight to forms and 
ceremonies. Well, he observed it, and touched fish only, 
although he drank enough of the sweet wine. Doubtless, 
a report of that meat will go to Spain by the next courier.” 

“And if it does, what matter? We are in England, 
and Englishmen will not suffer their Spanish laws and 
ways. Perhaps the Senor d’Aguilar learned as much 
as that to-night outside the banqueting-hall. There 
is something to be feared from this brawl at home; 
but while we are safe in London, no more from 
Spain.” 

“I am no coward, but I think there is much more 
to be feared, Peter. The arm of the Pope is long, 
and the arm of the crafty Ferdinand is longer, and 
both of them grope for the throats and moneybags of 
heretics.” 

“Well, Sir, we are not heretics.” 

“No, perhaps not heretics; but we are rich, and the 
father of one of us was a Jew, and there is something else 
in this house which even a true son of Holy Church might 
desire,” and he looked at the door through which Margaret 
had passed to her chamber. 

Peter understood, for his long arms moved uneasily, 
and his grey eyes flashed. 


28 


MARGARET 


‘^I will go to bed/’ he said; “I wish to think.” 

“Nay, lad,” answered Castell, “fill your glass and stay 
awhile. I have words to say to you, and there is no time 
like the present. Who knows what may happen to- 
morrow?” 


CHAPTER III 


PETER GATHERS VIOLETS 

Peter obeyed, sat down in a big oak chair by the dying 
fire, and waited in his silent fashion. 

^‘Listen,” said Castell. ^‘Fifteen months ago you told 
me something, did you not?’’ 

Peter nodded. 

“What was it, then?” 

“That I loved my cousin Margaret, and asked your 
leave to tell her so.” 

“And what did I answer?” 

“That you forbade me because you had not proved 
me enough, and she had not proved herself enough; 
because, moreover, she would be very wealthy, and with 
her beauty might look high in marriage, although but a 
merchant’s daughter.” 

“Well, and then?” 

“And then — nothing,” and Peter sipped his wine delib- 
erately and put it down upon the table. 

“You are a very silent man, even where your courting 
is concerned,” said Castell, searching him with his sharp 
eyes. 

“I am silent because there is no more to say. You 
bade me be silent, and I have remained so.” 


30 


MARGARET 


1 


“What! Even when you saw Those gay lords making 
their addresses to Margaret, and when she grew angry 
because you gave no sign, and was minded to yield to one 
or the other of them?^’ 

“Yes, even then — it was hard, but even then. Do I 
not eat your bread? and shall I take advantage of you 
when you have forbid me?” 

Castell looked at him again, and this time there were 
respect and affection in his glance. 

“Silent and stern, but honest,” he said as though to 
himself, then added, “A hard trial, but I saw it, and 
helped you in the best \vay by sending those suitors — 
who were worthless fellows — about their business. Now, 
say, are you still of the same mind towards Margaret?” 

“I seldom change my mind. Sir, and on such a business, 
never.” 

“Good! Then I give you my leave to find out what ^ 
her mind may be.” 

In the joy which he could not control, Peter’s face 
flushed. Then, as though he were ashamed of showing 
emotion, even at such a moment, he took up his glass 
and drank a little of the wine before he answered. 

“I thank you; it is more than I dared to hope. But it 
is right that I should say, Sir, that I am no match for my ; 
cousin Margaret. The lands which should have been 
mine are gone, and I have nothing save what you pay 
me for my poor help in this trade; whereas she has, or ' 
will have, much.” 

Castell’s eyes twinkled; the answer amused him. 

“At least you have an upright heart,” he said, “for 
what other man in such a case would argue against him- ; 
self ? Also, you are of good blood, and not ill to look on, 5 
or so some maids might think; whilst as for wealth, what ] 


PETER GATHERS VIOLETS 


31 


said the wise king of my people ? — that ofttimes riches 
make themselves wings and fly away. Moreover, man, 
I have learned to love and honor you, and sooner would 
I leave my only child in your hands than in those of any 
lord in England.’’ 

“I know not what to say,” broke in Peter. 

‘‘Then say nothing. It is your custom, and a good 
one — only listen. Just now you spoke of your Essex 
lands in the fair Vale of Dedham as gone. Well, they 
have come back, for last month I bought them all, and 
more, at a price larger than I wished to give because 
others sought them, and but this day I have paid in gold 
and taken delivery of the title. It is made out in your 
name, Peter Brome, and whether you marry my daughter, 
or whether you marry her not, yours they shall be when 
I am gone, since I promised my dead wife to befriend 
you, and as a child she lived there in your Hall.” 

Now moved out of his calm, the young man sprang 
from his seat, and, after the pious fashion of the time, 
addressed his patron saint, on whose feast-day he was 
born. 

“Saint Peter, I thank thee ” 

“I asked you to be silent,” interrupted Castell, breaking 
him short. “Moreover, after God, it is one John who 
should be thanked, not St. Peter, who has no more to do 
with these lands than Father Abraham or the patient Job. 
Well, thanks or no thanks, those estates are yours, though 
I had not meant to tell you of them yet. But now I have 
something to propose to you. Say, first, does Margaret 
think aught of that wooden face and those shut lips of 
yours?” 

“How can I know? I have never asked her; you 
forbade me.” 


32 


MARGARET 


“Pshaw! Living in one house as you do, at your age 
I would have known all there was to know on such a 
matter, and yet kept my word. But there, the blood is 
different, and you are somewhat over-honest for a lover. 
Was she frightened for you, now, when that knave made 
at you with the sword?” 

Peter considered the question, then answered: 

“I know not. I did not look to see; I looked at the 
Scotchman with his sword, for if I had not, I should 
have been dead, not he. But she was certainly frightened 
when the fellow caught hold of her, for then she called 
for me loud enough.” 

“And what is that? What woman in London would 
not call for such a one as Peter Brome in her trouble? 
Well, you must ask her, and that soon, if you can find 
the words. Take a lesson from that Spanish don, and 
scrape and bow and flatter and tell stories of the war 
and turn verses to her eyes and hair. Oh, Peter! are you 
a fool, that I at my age should have to teach you how to 
court a woman?” 

“Mayhap, Sir. At least I can do none of these things, 
and poesy wearies me to read, much more to write. But 
I can ask a question and take an answer.” 

Castell shook his head impatiently. 

“Ask the question, man, if you will, but never take 
the answer if it is against you. Wait rather, and ask it 
again ” 

“And,” went on Peter without noticing, his grey eyes 
lighting with a sudden fire, “if need be, I can break that 
fine Spaniard’s bones as though he were a twig.” 

“Ah!” said Castell, “perhaps you will be called upon 
to make your words good before all is done. For my 
part, I think his bones will take some breaking. Well, 


PETER GATHERS VIOLETS 


33 


t ask in your own way — only ask and let me hear the 
answer before to-morrow night. Now it grows late, and 
j I have still something to say. I am in danger here. My 
! wealth is noised abroad, and many covet it, some in high 
places, I think. Peter, it is in my mind to have done 
I with all this trading, and to withdraw me to spend my 
, old age where none will take any notice of me, down at 
that Hall of yours in Dedham, if you will give me lodging. 
Indeed for a year and more, ever since you spoke to me 
, on the subject of Margaret, I have been calling in my 
moneys from Spain and England, and placing them out 
at safe interest in small sums, or buying jewels with them, 
j or lending them to other merchants whom I trust, and 
; who will not rob me or mine. Peter, you have worked 
I well for me, but you are no chapman; it is not in your 
I blood. Therefore, since there is enough for all of us 
‘ and more, I shall pass this business and its goodwill over 
to others, to be managed in their name, but on shares, 
and if it please God we will keep next Yule at Dedham.” 

As he spoke the door at the far end of the hall opened, 
and through it came that serving-man who had been 
bidden to follow the Spaniard. 

“Well,” said Castell, “what tidings?” 

The man bowed and said: 

“I followed the Spaniard as you bade me to his lodging, 
which I reached without his seeing me, though from time 
to time he stopped to look about him. He rests near the 
palace of Westminster, in the same big house where 
dwells the ambassador de Ayala, and those who stood 
round lifted their bonnets to him. Watching, I saw some 
of these go to a tavern, a low place that is open all night, 
and, following them there, called for drink and listened 
to their talk who know the Spanish tongue well, having 
3 


34 


MARGARET 


worked for five years in your worship’s house at Seville. 
They spoke of the fray to-night, and said that if they 
could catch that long-legged fellow, meaning Master 
Brome yonder, they would put a knife into him, since he 
had shamed them by killing the Scotch knave, who was 
their officer and the best swordsman in their company, 
with a staff, and then setting his British bulldogs on them. 
I fell into talk with them, saying that I was an English 
sailor from Spain, which they were too drunk to question, 
and asked who might be the tall don who had interfered 
in the fray before the king came. They told me he is a 
rich senor named d’Aguilar, but ill to serve in Lent 
because he is so strict a churchman, although not strict 
in other matters. I answered that to me he looked like 
a great noble, whereon one of them said that I was right, 
that there was no blood in Spain higher than his, but, 
unfortunately, there was a bend in its stream, also an 
inkpot had been upset into it.” 

“What does that mean?” asked Peter. 

“It is a Spanish saying,” answered Castell, “which 
signifies that a man is born illegitimate, and has Moorish 
blood in his veins.” 

“Then I asked what he was doing here, and the man 
answered that I had best put that question to the Holy 
Father and to the Queen of Spain. Lastly, after I had 
given the soldier another cup, I asked where the don 
lived, and whether he had any other name. He replied 
that he lived at Granada for the most part, and that if I 
called on him there I should see some pretty ladies and 
other nice things. > As for his name, it was the Marquis 
of Nichel. I said that meant Marquis of Nothing, whereon 
the soldier answered that I seemed very curious, and that 
was just what he meant to tell me — nothing. Also he 


PETER GATHERS VIOLETS 


35 


called to his comrades that he believed I was a spy, so I 
thought it time to be going, as they were drunk enough 
to do me a mischief.’’ 

“Good,” said Castell. “You are watchman to-night, 
Thomas, are you not? See that all doors are barred so 
that we may sleep without fear of Spanish thieves. Rest 
you well, Peter. Nay, I do not come yet; I have letters 
to send to Spain by the ship which sails to-morrow night.” 

When Peter had gone, John Castell extinguished all 
the lamps save one. This he took in his hand and passed 
from the hall into an apartment that in old days, when 
this was a noble’s house, had been the private chapel. 
There was an altar in it, and over the altar a crucifix. 
For a few moments Castell knelt before the altar, for even 
nowy at dead of night, how knew he what eyes might 
watch him? Then he rose and, lamp in hand, glided 
behind it, lifted some tapestry, and pressed a spring in 
the panelling beneath. It opened, revealing a small 
secret chamber built in the thickness of the wall and 
without windows; a mere cupboard that once perhaps 
had been a place where a priest might robe or keep the 
sacred vessels. 

In this chamber was a plain oak table on which stood 
candles and an ark of wood, also some rolls of parchment. 
Before this table he knelt down, and put up earnest 
prayers to the God of Abraham, for, although his father 
had caused him to be baptized into the Christian Church 
as a child, John Castell remained a Jew. For this good 
reason, then, he was so much afraid, knowing that, al- 
though his daughter and Peter knew nothing of his secret, 
there were others who did, and that were it revealed ruin 
and perhaps death would be his portion and that of his 
house, since in those days there was no greater crime than 


36 


MARGARET 


to worship God otherwise than Holy Church allowed. 
Yet for many years he had taken the risk, and worshipped 
on as his fathers did before him. 

His prayer finished, he left the place, closing the spring- 
door behind him, and passed to his office, where he sat 
till the morning light, first writing a letter to his corre- 
spondent at Seville, and then painfully translating it into 
cipher by aid of a secret key. His task done, and the 
cipher letter sealed and directed, he burned the draft, 
extinguished his lamp and, going to the window, watched 
the rising of the sun. In the garden beneath blackbirds 
sang, and the pale primroses were abloom. 

“I wonder,” he said aloud, “whether when those 
flowers come again I shall live to see them. Almost I 
feel as though the rope were tightening about my throat 
at last; it came upon me while that accursed Spaniard 
crossed himself at my table. Well, so be it; I will hide the 
truth while I can, but if they catch me I’ll not deny it. 
The money is safe, most of it; my wealth they shall never 
get, and now I will make my daughter safe also, as with 
Peter she must be. I would I had not put it off so long; 
but I hankered after a great marriage for her, which, 
being a Christian, she well might make. I’ll mend that 
fault: before to-morrow’s morn she shall be plighted to 
him, and before May-day his wife. God of my fathers, 
give us one month more of peace and safety, and then, 
because I have denied Thee openly, take my life in pay- 
ment if Thou wilt.” 

Before John Castell went to bed Peter was already 
awake — indeed, he had slept but little that night. How 
could he sleep whose fortunes had changed thus won- 
drously between sun set and rise? Yesterday he was but 


PETER GATHERS VIOLETS 


37 


a merchant’s assistant — a poor trade for one who had 
been trained to arms, and borne them bravely. To-day 
he was a gentleman again, owner of the broad lands 
where he was bred, and that had been his forefathers’ for 
many a generation. Yesterday he was a lover without 
hope, for in himself he had never believed that the rich 
John Castell would suffer him, a landless man, to pay 
court to his daughter, one of the loveliest and wealthiest 
maids in London. He had asked his leave in past days, 
and been refused, as he had expected that he would be 
refused, and thenceforward, being on his honor as it 
were, he had said no tender word to Margaret, nor pressed 
her hand, nor even looked into her eyes and sighed. Yet 
at times it had seemed to him that she would not have 
been ill-pleased if he had done one of these things, or all; 
that she wondered, indeed, that he did not, and thought 
none the better of him for his abstinence. Moreover, 
now he learned that her father wondered also, and this 
was a strange reward of virtue. 

For Peter loved Margaret with heart and soul and 
body. Since he, a-4ad, had played with her, a child, he 
loved her, and no other woman. She was his thought by 
day and his dream by night, his hope, his eternal star. 
Heaven he pictured as a place where he forever would 
be with Margaret, earth without her could be nothing 
but a hell. That was why he had stayed on in Castell’s 
shop, bending his proud neck to this tradesman’s yoke, 
doing the bidding and taking the rough words of chapmen 
and of lordly customers, filling in bills of exchange, and 
cheapening bargains, all without a sign or murmur, 
though oftentimes he felt as though his gorge would burst 
with loathing of the life. Indeed, that was why he had 
come there at all, who otherwise would have been far 


38 


MARGARET 


away, hewing a road to fame and fortune, or digging out 
a grave with his broadsword. For here at least he could 
be near to Margaret, could touch her hand at morn and 
evening, could watch the light shine in her beauteous 
eyes, and sometimes, as she bent over him, feel her breath 
upon his hair. And now his purgatory was at an end, 
and of a sudden the gates of joy were open. 

But what if Margaret should prove the angel with the 
flaming sword who forbade him entrance to his paradise ? 
He trembled at the thought. Well, if so, so it must be; 
he was not the man to force her fancy, or call her father 
to his aid. He would do his best to win her, and if he 
failed, why then he would bless her, and let her go. 

Peter could lie abed no longer, but rose and dressed 
himself, although the dawn was not fully come. By his 
open window he said his prayers, thanking God for mercies 
past, and praying that He would bless him in his great 
emprise. Presently the sun rose, and there came a great 
longing on him to be alone in the countryside, he who 
was country-born and hated towns, with only the sky 
and the birds and the trees for company. But here in 
London was no country, wherever he went he would meet 
men; moreover, he remembered that it might be best 
that just now he should not wander through the streets 
unguarded, lest he should find Spaniards watching to 
take him unawares. Well, there was the garden; he 
would go there, and walk a while. 

So he descended the broad oak stairs, and, unbolting 
a door, entered this garden, which, though not too well 
kept, was large for London, covering an acre of ground 
perhaps, surrounded by a high wall, and having walks, 
and at the end of it a group of ancient elms, beneath 
which was a seat hidden from the house. In summer 


PETER GATHERS VIOLETS 


39 


this was Margaret^s favorite bower, for she too loved 
Nature and the land, and all the things it bore. Indeed, 
this garden was her joy, and the flowers that grew there 
were for the most part of her own planting — primroses, 
snowdrops, violets, and, in the shadow of the trees, long 
hartstongue ferns. 

For a while Peter walked up and down the central 
path, and, as it chanced, Margaret, who also had risen 
early and not slept too well, looking through her window 
curtains, saw him wandering there, and wondered what 
he did at this hour; also, why he was dressed in the clothes 
he wore on Sundays and holidays. Perhaps, she thought, 
his weekday garments had been torn or muddied in last 
night’s fray. Then she fell to thinking how bravely he 
had borne him in the fray. She saw it all again : the great 
red-headed rascal tossed up and whirled to the earth by 
his strong arms; saw Peter face that gleaming steel with 
nothing but a staff; saw the straight blows fall, and the 
fellow go reeling to the earth, slain with a single stroke. 

Ah ! her cousin, Peter Brome, was a man indeed, though 
a strange one, and remembering certain things that did 
not please her, she shrugged her ivory shoulders, turned 
red, and pouted. Why, that Spaniard had said more 
civil words to her in an hour than had Peter in two years, 
and he was handsome and noble-looking also; but then 
the Spaniard was — a Spaniard, and other men were — 
other men, whereas Peter was — Peter, a creature apart, 
one who cared as little for women as he did for trade. 

Why, then, if he cared for neither women nor trade 
did he stop here? she wondered. To gather wealth? 
She did not think it; he seemed to have no leanings that 
way either. It was a mystery. Still, she could wish to 
get to the bottom of Peter’s heart, just to see what was 


40 


MARGARET 


hid there, since no man has a right to be a riddle to his 
loving cousin. Yes, and one day she would do it, cost 
what it might. 

Meanwhile, she remembered that she had never thanked 
Peter for the brave part which he had played, and, in- 
deed, had left him to walk home with Betty, a journey 
that, as she gathered from her sprightly cousin’s talk 
while she undressed her, neither of them had much en- 
joyed. For Betty, be it said here, was angry with Peter, 
who, it seemed, once had told her that she was a handsome, 
silly fool, who thought too much of men and too little of 
her business. Well, since after the day’s work had begun 
she would find no opportunity, she would go down and 
thank Peter now, and see if she could make him talk for 
once. 

So Margaret threw her fur-trimmed cloak about her, 
drawing its hood over her head, for the April air was 
cold, and followed Peter into the garden. When she 
reached it, however, there was no Peter to be seen, whereon 
she reproached herself for having come to that damp 
place so early, and meditated return. Then, thinking 
that it would look foolish if any had chanced to see her, 
she walked down the path pretending to seek for violets, 
and found none. Thus she came to the group of great 
elms at the end, and, glancing between their ancient 
boles, saw Peter standing there. Now, too, she understood 
why she could find no violets, for Peter had gathered them 
all and was engaged, awkwardly enough, in trying to tie 
them and some leaves into a little posy by the help of a 
stem of grass. With his left hand he held the violets, 
with his right one end of the grass, and since he lacked 
fingers to clasp the other, this he attempted with his teeth. 
Now he drew it tight, and now the brittle grass stem broke. 


PETER GATHERS VIOLETS 41 

the violets were scattered, and Peter used a word that he 
should not have uttered even when alone. 

“I knew you would break it, but I never thought you 
could lose your temper over so small a thing, Peter,” said 
Margaret; and he in the shadow looked up to see her 
standing there in the sunlight, fresh and lovely as the 
spring itself. 

Solemnly, in severe reproof, she shook her head, from 
which the hood had fallen back, but there was a smile 
upon her lips, and laughter in her eyes. Oh! she was 
beautiful, and at the sight of her Peter’s heart stood still. 
Then, remembering what he had just said, and certain 
other things that Master Castell had said, he blushed so 
deeply that her own cheeks went red in sympathy. It was 
foolish, but she could not help it, for about Peter this 
morning there was something strange, something that 
bred blushes. 

“For whom are you gathering violets so early,” she 
asked, “ when you ought to be praying for that Scotchman’s 
soul?” 

“I care nothing for his soul,” answered Peter testily. 
“If the brute had one, he can look after it himself; and 
I was gathering the violets — for you.” 

She stared. Peter was not in the habit of making 
her presents of flowers. No wonder he had looked 
strange. 

“Then I will help you to tie them. Do you know why 
I am up so early ? It is for your sake. I behaved badly 
to you last night, for I was cross because you wanted to 
thwart me about seeing the king. I never thanked you 
for all you did, you brave Peter, though I thanked you 
enough in my heart. Do you know that when you stood 
there with that sword, in the middle of those Englishmen 


42 


MARGARET 


you looked quite noble? Come out into the sunlight, 
and I will thank you properly.” 

In his agitation Peter let the remainder of the flowers 
fall. Then an idea struck him, and he answered: 

“Look! I can’t; if you are really grateful for nothing at 
all, come in here and help me to pick up these violets — 
a pest on their short stalks!” 

She hesitated a little, then by degrees drew nearer, and, 
bending down, began to find the flowers one by one. 
Peter had scattered them wide, so that at first the pair 
were some way apart, but when only a few remained, they 
drew close. Now there was but one violet left, and, both 
stretching for it, their hands met. Margaret held the 
violet, and Peter held Margaret’s fingers. Thus linked 
they straightened themselves, and as they rose their faces 
were very near together, and oh! most sweet were Mar- 
garet’s wonderful eyes; while in the eyes of Peter there 
shone a flame. For a second they looked at each other, 
and then of a sudden he kissed her on the lips. 


CHAPTER IV 

LOVERS DEAR 

“Peter!” gasped Margaret — Peter 

But Peter made no answer, only he who had been red 
of face went white, so that the mark of the sword-cut 
across his cheek showed like a scarlet line upon a cloth. 

“Peter!” repeated Margaret, pulling at her hand which 
he still held, “do you know what you have done?” 

“It seems that you do, so what need is there for me to 
tell you?” he muttered. 

“ Then it was not an accident ; you really meant it, and 
you are not ashamed.” 

“If it was, I hope that I may meet with more such 
accidents.” 

“Peter, leave go of me. I am going to tell my father, 
at once.” 

His face brightened. 

“Tell him by all means,” he said; “he won^t mind. 
He told me ” 

“Peter, how dare you add falsehood to — to — you 
know what. Do you mean to say that my father told you 
to kiss me, and at six o^clock in the morning too ?” 

“He said nothing about kissing, but I suppose he meant 
it. He said that I might ask you to marry me.” 

43 


44 


MARGARET 


“That,” replied Margaret, “is a very different thing. 
If you had asked me to marry you, and, after thinking 
it over for a long while, I had answered Yes, which of 
course I should not have done, then, perhaps, before we 

were married you might have Well, Peter, you 

have begun at the wrong end, which is very shame- 
less and wicked of you, and I shall never speak to you 
again.” 

“I daresay,” said Peter resignedly; “all the more rea- 
son why I should speak to you while I have the chance. 
No, you shan’t go till you have heard me. Listen. I 
have been in love with you since you were twelve years 
old ” 

“That must be another falsehood, Peter, or you have 
gone mad. If you had been in love with me for eleven 
years, you would have said so.” 

“I wanted to, always, but your father refused me leave. 
I asked him fifteen months ago, but he put me on my 
word to say nothing.” 

“To say nothing — yes, but he could not make you 
promise to show nothing.” 

“I thought that the one thing meant the other; I see 
now that I have been a fool, and, I suppose, have over- 
stayed my market,” and he looked so depressed that 
Margaret relented a little. 

“Well,” she said, at “any rate it was honest, and 
of course I am glad that you were honest.” 

“You said just now that I told falsehoods — twice; if 
I am honest, how can I tell falsehoods?” 

“I don’t know. Why do you ask me riddles? Let 
me go and try to forget all this.” 

“Not till you have answered me outright. Will you 
marry me, Margaret? If you won’t, there will be no 


LOVERS DEAR 


45 


need for you to go, for I shall go and trouble you no more. 
You know what I am, and all about me, and I have 
nothing more to say except that, although you may find 
many finer husbands, you won’t find one who would love 
and care for you better. I know that you are very beauti- 
ful and very rich, while I am neither one nor the other, 
and often I have wished to Heaven that you were not so 
beautiful, for sometimes that brings trouble on women who 
are honest and only have one heart to give, or so rich either. 
But thus things are, and I cannot change them, and, how- 
ever poor my chance of hitting the dove, I determined to 
shoot my bolt and make way for the next archer. Is there 
any chance at all, Margaret? Tell me, and put me out of 
pain, for I am not good at so much talking.” 

Now Margaret began to grow disturbed; her wayward 
assurance departed from her. 

“It is not fitting,” she murmured, “and I do not wish 

1 will speak to my father; he shall give you your 

answer.” 

“No need to trouble him, Margaret. He has given it 
already. His great desire is that we should marry, for 
he seeks to leave this trade and to live with us in the Vale 
of Dedham, in Essex, where he has bought back my 
father’s land.” 

“You are full of strange tidings this morning, 
Peter.” 

“Yes, Margaret, our wheel of life that went so slow 
turns fast enough to-day, for God above has laid His 
whip upon the horses of our Fate, and they begin to gallop, 
whither I know not. Must they run side by side, or sepa- 
rate ? It is for you to say.” 

“Peter,” she said, “will you not give me a little time?” 

“Aye, Margaret, ten whole minutes by the clock, and 


46 


MARGARET 


then if it is nay, all your life, for I pack my chest and go. 
It will be said that I feared to be taken for that soldier’s 
death.” 

“You are unkind to press me so.” 

“Nay, it is kindest to both of us. Do you then love 
some other man?” 

“I must confess I do,” she murmured, looking at him 
out of the comers of her eyes. 

Now Peter, strong as he was, turned faint, and in his 
agitation let go her hand which she lifted, the violets 
still between her fingers, considering it as though it were 
a new thing to her. 

“I have no right to ask you who he is,” he muttered, 
striving to control himself. 

“Nay, but Peter, I will tell you. It is my father — 
what other man should I love?” 

“Margaret!” he said in wrath, “you are fooling me.” 

“How so? What other man should I love — unless, 
indeed, it were yourself?” 

“I can bear no more of this play,” he said. “Mis- 
tress Margaret, I bid you farewell. God go with you!” 
And he brushed past her. 

“Peter,” she said when he had gone a few yards, “would 
you have these violets as a farewell gift?” 

He turned and hesitated. 

“Come, then, and take them.” 

So back he came, and with little trembling fingers she 
began to fasten the flowers to his doublet, bending ever 
nearer as she fastened, until her breath played upon his 
face, and her hair brushed his bonnet. Then, it matters 
not how, once more the violets fell to earth, and she sighed, 
and her hands fell also, and he put his strong arms round 
her and drew her to him and kissed her again and yet 


LOVERS DEAR 


47 

again on the hair and eyes and lips; nor did Margaret 
forbid him. 

At length she thrust him from her, and, taking him 
by the hand, led him to the seat beneath the elms, and 
bade him sit at one end of it, while she sat at the 
other. 

‘‘Peter,’’ she whispered, “I wish to speak with you 
when I can get my breath. Peter, you think poorly of 
me, do you not? No — be silent; it is my turn to talk. 
You think that I am heartless, and have been playing 
with you. Well, I only did it to make sure that you really 
do love me, since, after that — accident of a while ago 
(when we were picking up the violets, I mean), you would 
have been in honor bound to say it, would you not ? Well, 
now I am quite sure, so I will tell you something. I love 
you many times as well as you love me, and have done 
so for quite as long. Otherwise, should I not have married 
some other suitor, of whom there have been plenty ? Aye, 
and I will tell you this to my sin and shame, that once I 
grew so angry with you because you would not speak or 
give some little sign, that I went near to it. But at the 
last I could not, and sent him about his business also. 
Peter, when I saw you last night facing that swordsman 
with but a staff, and thought that you must die, oh! then 
I knew all the truth, and my heart was nigh to bursting, 
as, had you died, it would have burst. But now it is all 
done with, and we know each other’s secret, and nothing 
shall ever part us more till death comes to one or 
both.” 

Thus Margaret spoke, while he drank in her words as 
desert sands, parched by years of drought, drink in the 
rain — and watched her face, out of which all mischief 
and mockery had departed, leaving it that of a most beaute- 


48 


MARGARET 


ous and most earnest woman, to whom a sense of the 
weight of life, with its mingled joys and sorrows, had come 
home suddenly. When she had finished, this silent man, 
to whom even his great happiness brought few words, 
said only: 

“ God has been very good to us. Let us thank God.’’ 

So they did, then, even there, seated side by side upon 
the bench, because the grass was too wet for them to kneel 
on, praying in their simple, childlike faith that the Power 
which had brought them together, and taught them to 
love each other, would bless them in that love and protect 
them from all harms, enemies, and evils through many a 
long year of life. 

Their prayer finished, they sat together on the seat, 
now talking, and now silent in their joy, while all too fast 
the time wore on. At length — it was after one of these 
spells of blissful silence — a change came over them, such 
a change as falls upon some peaceful scene when, unex- 
pected and complete, a black stonn-cloud sweeps across 
the sun, and, in place of its warm light, pours down gloom 
full of the promise of tempest and of rain. Apprehen- 
sion got a hold of them. They were both afraid of what 
they could not guess. 

“Come,” she said, “it is time to go in. My father will 
miss us.” 

So without more words or endearments they rose and 
walked side by side out of the shelter of the elms into the 
open garden. Their heads were bent, for they were lost 
in thought, and thus it came about that Margaret saw her 
feet pass suddenly into the shadow of a man, and, looking 
up, perceived standing in front of her, grave, alert, amused, 
none other than the Senor d’Aguilar. She uttered a 
little stifled scream, while Peter, with the impulse that 


LOVERS DEAR 


49 


causes a brave and startled hound to rush at that 
which frightens it, gave a leap forward towards the 
Spaniard. 

“Mother of God! do you take me for a thief?” he 
asked in a laughing voice, as he stepped to one side to 
avoid him. 

“Your pardon,” said Peter, shaking himself together; 
“but you surprised us appearing so suddenly where we 
never thought to see you.” 

“Any more than I thought to see you here, for this 
seems a strange place to linger on so cold a morning,” 
and he looked at them again with his curious, mocking 
eyes that appeared to read the secret of their souls, while 
they grew red as roses beneath his scrutiny. “ Permit me 
to explain,” he went on. “I came here thus early on 
your service, to warn you. Master Peter, not to go abroad 
to-day, since a writ is out for your arrest, and as yet I 
have had no time to quash it by friendly settlement. 
Well, as it chanced, I met that handsome lady who was 
with you yesterday, returning from her marketing — a 
friendly soul — she says she is your cousin. She brought 
me to the house, and having learned that your father, 
whom I wished to see, was at his prayers, good man, in 
the old chapel, led me to its door and left me to seek him. 
I entered, but could not find him, so, having waited a 
while, strayed into this garden through the open door, 
purposing to walk here till some one should appear, and 
you see, I have been fortunate beyond my expectations 
or deserts.” 

“Sol” said Peter shortly, for the man^s manner and 
elaborated explanations filled him with disgust. “Let 
us seek Master Castell that he may hear the story.” 

“And we thank you much for coming to warn us,” 


4 


50 


MARGARET 


murmured Margaret. ‘‘I will go find my father,’’ and 
she slipped past him towards the door. 

D ’Aguilar watched her enter it, then turned to Peter 
and said : 

“You English are a hardy folk who take the spring air 
so early. Well, in such company I would do the same. 
Truly she is a beauteous maiden. I have some experi- 
ence of the sex, but never do I remember one so fair.” 

“My cousin is well enough,” answered Peter coldly, 
for this Spaniard’s very evident admiration of Margaret 
did not please him. 

“Yes,” answered d’Aguilar, taking no notice of his tone, 
“she is well enough to fill the place, not of a merchant’s 
daughter, but of a great lady — a countess reigning over 
towns and lands, or a queen even; the royal robes and 
ornaments would become that carriage and that brow.” 

“My cousin seeks no such state who is happy in her 
quiet lot,” answered Peter again, then added quickly, 
“ See, here comes Master Castell seeking you.” 

D’Aguilar advanced and greeted the merchant courte- 
ously, noticing as he did so that, notwithstanding his efforts 
to appear unconcerned, Castell seemed ill at ease. 

“I am an early visitor,” he said, “but I knew that you 
business folk rise with the lark, and I wished to catch 
our friend here, before he went out,” and he repeated to 
him the reason of his coming. 

“I thank you, Senor,” answered Castell. “You are 
very good to me and mine. I am sorry that you have 
been kept waiting. They tell me that you looked for me 
in the chapel, but I was not there, who had already left 
it for my office.” 

“So I found. It is a quaint place, that old chapel of 
yours, and while I waited I went to the altar and told my 


LOVERS DEAR 51 

beads there, which I had no time to do before I left my 
lodgings.” 

Castell started almost imperceptibly, and glanced at 
d’ Aguilar with his quick eyes, then turned the subject 
and asked if he would not breakfast with him. He de- 
clined, however, saying that he must be about their busi- 
ness and his own, then promptly proposed that he should 
come to supper on the following night — that was Sunday 
— and make report how things had gone, a suggestion 
that Castell could not but accept. 

So he bowed and smiled himself out of the house, and 
walked thoughtfully into Holbom, for it had pleased 
him to pay this visit on foot, and unattended. At the 
comer who should he meet again but the tall, fair-haired 
Betty, returning from some errand which she had found 
it convenient to fulfil just then. 

“What,” he said, “you once more! The saints are 
very kind to me this morning. Come, Senora, walk a 
little way with me, for I would ask you a few questions.” 

Betty hesitated, then gave way. It was seldom that 
she found the chance of walking through Holbom with 
such a noble- looking cavalier. 

“Never look at your working-dress,” he said. “With 
such a shape, what matters the robe that covers it?” — a 
compliment at which Betty blushed, for she was proud of 
her fine figure. 

“Would you like a mantilla of real Spanish lace for 
your head and shoulders ? Well, you shall have one that 
I brought from Spain with me, for I know no other lady 
in the land whom it would become better. But, Mistress 
Betty, you told me wrong about your master. I went to 
the chapel and he was not there.” 

“He was there, Sehor,” she answered, eager to set 


52 


MARGARET 


herself right with this most agreeable and discriminating 
foreigner, “for I saw him go in a moment before, and he 
did not come out again.” 

“Then, Senora, where could he have hidden himself? 
Has the place a crypt ?” 

“None that I have heard of; but,” she added, “there 
is a kind of little room behind the altar.” 

“Indeed. How do you know that? I saw no room.” 

“Because one day I heard a voice behind the tapestry, 
Senor, and, lifting it, saw a sliding door left open, and 
Master Castell kneeling before a table and saying his 
prayers aloud.” 

“How strange! And what was there on the table?” 

“Only a queer-shaped box of wood like a little house, 
and two candlesticks, and some rolls of parchment. But 
I forgot, Senor; I promised Master Castell to say nothing 
about that place, for he turned and saw me, and came at 
me like a watchdog out of its kennel. You won’t say that 
I told you, will you, Senor?” 

“Not I; your good master’s private cupboard does not 
interest me. Now I want to know something more. Why 
is that beautiful cousin of yours not married? Has she 
no suitors?” 

“Suitors, Senor? Yes, plenty of them, but she sends 
them all about their business, and seems to have no mind 
that way.” 

“Perhaps she is in love with her cousin, that long- 
legged, strong-armed, wooden-headed Master Brome.” 

“Oh! no, Senor, I don’t think so; no lady could be in 
love with him — he is too stem and silent.” 

“I agree with you, Senora. Then perhaps he is in 
love with her.” 

Betty shook her head, and rephed : 


LOVERS DEAR 


53 

“Peter Brome doesn’t think anything of women, Senor. 
At least he never speaks to or of them.” 

“Which shows that probably he thinks about them all 
the more. Well, well, it is no affair of ours, is it ? Only 
I am glad to hear that there is nothing between them, 
since your mistress ought to marry high, and be a great 
lady, not a mere merchant’s wife.” 

“Yes, Senor. Though Peter Brome is not a merchant, 
at least by birth ; he is high-born, and should be Sir Peter 
Brome if his father had not fought on the wrong side and 
sold his land. He is a soldier, and a very brave one, they 
say, as all might see last night.” 

“No doubt, and perhaps would make a great captain, 
if he had the chance, with his stem face and silent tongue. 
But, Senora Betty, say, how comes it that, being so hand- 
some,” and he bowed, “you are not married either? I am 
sure it can be from no lack of suitors.” 

Again Betty, foolish girl, flushed with pleasure at the 
compliment. 

“You are right, Senor,” she answered. “I have plenty 
of them; but I am like my cousin — they do not please 
me. Although my father lost his fortune, I come of good 
blood, and I suppose that is why I do not care for these 
low-bom men, and would rather remain as I am than 
marry one of them.” 

“You are quite right,” said d’Aguilar in his sympathetic 
voice. “Do not stain your blood. Marry in your own 
class, or not at all, which, indeed, should not be difficult 
for one so beautiful and charming.” And he looked into 
her large eyes with tender admiration. 

This quality, indeed, soon began to demonstrate itself 
so actively, for they were now in the fields where few 
people wandered, that Betty, who although vain was 


54 


MARGARET 


proud and upright, thought it wise to recollect that she 
must be turning homewards. So, in spite of his protests, 
she left him and departed, walking upon air. 

How splendid and handsome this foreign gentleman 
was, she thought to herself, really a great cavalier, and 
surely he admired her tmly. Why should he not ? Such 
things had often been. Many a rich lady whom she knew 
was not half so handsome or so well bom as she was, and 
would make him a worse wife — that is, and the thought 
chilled her somewhat — if he were not already married. 

From all of which it will be seen that d’ Aguilar had 
quickly succeeded in the plan which only presented itself 
to him a few hours before. Betty was already half in 
love with him. Not that he had any desire to possess 
this beautiful but foolish woman’s heart, who saw in her 
only a useful tool, a stepping-stjone by means of which he 
might draw near to Margaret. 

For with Margaret, it may be said at once, he was quite 
in love. At the sight of her sweet yet imperial beauty, 
as he saw her first, dishevelled, angry, frightened, in the 
crowd outside the king’s banqueting-hall, his southern 
blood had taken sudden fire. Finished voluptuary though 
he was, the sensation he experienced then was quite new to 
him. He longed for this woman as he had never longed 
for any other, and, what is more, he desired to make her 
his wife. Why not? Although there was a flaw in it, 
his rank was high, and therefore she was beneath him; 
but for this her loveliness would atone, and she had wit 
and learning enough to fill any place that he could give 
her. Also, great as was his wealth, his wanton, spend- 
thrift way of life had brought him many debts, and she 
was the only child of one of the richest merchants in Eng- 
land, whose dower, doubtless, would be a fortune that 


LOVERS DEAR 


55 


many a royal princess might envy. Why not again ? He 
would turn Inez and those others adrift — at any rate, 
for a while — and make her mistress of his palace there in 
Granada. Instantly, as is often the fashion of those who 
have Eastern blood in their veins, d’Aguilar had made 
up his mind, yes, before he left her father’s table on the 
previous night. He would marry Margaret and no other 
woman. 

Yet at once he had seen many difficulties in his path. 
To begin with, he mistrusted him of Peter, that strong, 
quiet man who could kill a great armed knave with his 
stick, and at a word call half London to his side. Peter, 
he was sure, being human, must be in love with Margaret, 
and he was a rival to be feared. Well, if Margaret had 
no thoughts of Peter, this mattered nothing, and if she 
had — and what were they doing together in the garden 
that morning? — Peter must be got rid of, that was all. 
It was easy enough if he chose to adopt certain means; 
there were many of those Spanish fellows who would not 
mind sticking a knife into his back in the dark. 

But, sinful as he was, at such steps his conscience 
halted. Whatever d’Aguilar had done, he had never 
caused a man to be actually murdered, he who was a bigot, 
who atoned for his misdoings by periods of remorse and 
prayer, in which he placed his purse and talents at the 
service of the Church, as he was doing at this moment. 
No, murder must not be thought of; for how could any 
absolution wash him clean of that stain ? But there were 
other ways. For instance, had not this Peter, in self- 
defence it is true, killed one of the servants of an ambas- 
sador of Spain? Perhaps, however, it would not be 
necessary to make use of them. It had seemed to him that 
the lady was not ill pleased with him, and, after all, he had 


56 


MARGARET 


much to offer. He would court her fairly, and if he were 
rejected by her, or by her father, then it would be time 
enough to act. Meanwhile, he would keep the sword 
hanging over the head of Peter, pretending that it was he 
alone who had prevented it from falhng, and learn all 
that he could as to Castell and his history. 

Here, indeed. Fortune, in the shape of the foolish Betty, 
had favored him. Without a doubt, as he had heard in 
Spain, and been sure from the moment that he first saw 
him, Castell was still secretly a Jew. Mistress Betty’s 
story of the room behind the altar, with the ark and the 
candles and the rolls of the Law, proved as much. At 
least here was evidence enough to send him to the fires of 
the Inquisition in Spain, and, perhaps, to drive him out 
of England. Now, if John Castell, the Spanish Jew, 
should not wish, for any reason, to give him his daughter 
in marriage, would not a hint and an extract from the 
Commissions of their Majesties of Spain and the Holy 
Father suffice to make him change his mind? 

Thus pondering, d’Aguilar regained his lodgings, where 
his first task was to enter in a book all that Betty had 
told him, and all that he had observed in the house of 
John Castell. 


CHAPTER V 
castell’s secret 

In John Castell’s house it was the habit, as in most 
others in those days, for his dependents, clerks, and shop- 
men to eat their morning and mid-day meals with him in 
his hall, seated at two lower tables, all of them save Betty, 
his daughter’s cousin and companion, who sat with them 
at the upper board. This morning Betty’s place was 
empty, and presently Castell, lifting his eyes, for he was 
lost in thought, noted it, and asked where she might be — 
a question that neither Margaret nor Peter could answer. 

One of the servants at the lower table, however — it 
was that man who had been sent to follow d’Aguilar on 
the previous night — said that as he came down Holbom 
a while before he had seen her walking with the Spanish 
don, a saying at which his master looked grave. 

Just as they were finishing their meal, a very silent one, 
for none of them seemed to have anything to say, and after 
the servants had left the hall, Betty arrived, flushed as 
though with running. 

“Where have you been that you are so late?” asked 
Castell. 

“To seek the linen for the new sheets, but it was not 
ready,” she answered glibly. 


57 


58 


MARGARET 


“The mercer kept you waiting long,” remarked Castell 
quietly. “Did you meet any one?” 

“ Only the folk in the street.” 

“I will ask you no more questions, lest I should cause 
you to lie and bring you into sin,” said Castell sternly. 
“ Girl, how far did you walk with the Sehor d ’Aguilar, and 
what was your business with him?” 

Now Betty knew that she had been seen, and that it 
was useless to deny the truth. 

“Only a little way,” she answered, “and that because 
he prayed me to show him his path.” 

“Listen, Betty,” went on Castell, taking no notice of 
her words. “You are old enough to guard yourself, 
therefore as to your walking abroad with gallants who can 
mean you no good I say nothing. But know this — no 
one who has knowledge of the matters of my house,” and 
he looked at her keenly, “shall mix with any Spaniard. 
If you are found alone with this senor any more, that hour 
I have done with you, and you never pass my door again. 
Nay, no words. Take your food and eat it elsewhere.” 

So she departed half weeping, but very angry, for Betty 
was strong and obstinate by nature. When she had gone, 
Margaret, who was fond of her cousin, tried to say some 
words on her behalf ; but her father stopped her. 

“Pshaw!” he said, “I know the girl; she is vain as a 
peacock, and, remembering her gentle birth and good 
looks, seeks to marry above her station; while for some 
purpose of his own — an ill one. I’ll warrant — that 
Spaniard plays upon her weakness, which, if it be not 
curbed, may bring trouble on us all. Now, enough of 
Betty Dene; I must to my work.” 

“Sir,” said Peter, speaking for the first time, “we would 
have a private word with you.” 


CASTELL’S SECRET 


59 


“A private word,” he said, looking up anxiously. 
“Well, speak on. No, this place is not private; I think 
its walls have ears. Follow me,” and he led the way into 
the old chapel, whereof, when they had all passed it, he 
bolted the door. “Now,” he said, “what is it?” 

“Sir,” answered Peter, standing before him, “having 
your leave at last, I asked your daughter in marriage this 
morning.” 

“At least you lose no time, friend Peter; unless you had 
called her from her bed and made your offer through the 
door you could not have done it quicker. Well, well, you 
ever were a man of deeds, not words, and what says my 
Margaret?” 

“An hour ago she said she was content,” answered 
Peter. 

“A cautious man also,” went on Castell with a twinkle 
in his eye, “ who remembers that women have been known 
to change their minds within an hour. After such long 
thought, what say you now, Margaret?” 

“That I am angry with Peter,” she answered, stamping 
her small foot, “for if he does not trust me for an hour, 
how can he trust me for his life and mine?” 

“Nay, Margaret, you do not understand me,” said 
Peter. “ I wished not to bind you, that is all, in case ” 

“Now you are saying it again,” she broke in vexed, and 
yet amused. “ Do so a third time, and I will take you at 
your word.” 

“ It seems best that I should remain silent. Speak you,” 
said Peter humbly. 

“Aye, for truly you are a master of silence, as I should 
know, if any do,” replied Margaret, bethinking her of the 
weary months and years of waiting. “Well, I will answer 
for you. — Father, Peter was right; I am content to marry 


6o 


MARGARET 


him, though to do so will be to enter the Order of the 
Silent Brothers. Yes, I am content; not for himself, 
indeed, who has so many faults, but for myself, who chance 
to love him,” and she smiled sweetly enough.” 

Do not jest on such matters, Margaret.” 

“Why not, father? Peter is solemn enough for both of 
us — look at him. Let us laugh while we may, for who 
knows when tears may come.” 

“A good saying,” answered Castell with a sigh. “So 
you two have plighted your troth, and, my children, I am 
glad of it, for who knows when those tears of which Mar- 
garet spoke may come, and then you can wipe away each 
other’s? Take now her hand, Peter, and swear by the 
Rood, that symbol which you worship” — here Peter 
glanced at him, but he went on — “swear, both of you, 
that come what may, together or separate, through good 
report or evil report, through poverty or wealth, through 
peace or persecutions, through temptation or through 
blood, through every good or ill that can befall you in this 
world of bitter-sweet, you will remain faithful to your 
troth until you be wed, and after you are wed, faithful to 
each other till death do part you.” 

These words he spoke to them in a voice that was earnest 
almost to passion, searching their faces the while with his 
quick eyes as though he would read their very hearts. His 
mood crept from him to them; once again they felt some- 
thing of that fear which had fallen on them in the garden 
when they passed into the shadow of the Spaniard. Very 
solemnly then, and with little of true lovers’ joy, did they 
take each other’s hands and swear by the Cross and Him 
Who hung on it, that through these things, and all others 
they could not foretell, they woqld, if need were, be faith- 
ful to the death. 






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CASTELL DECLARES HIMSELF A JEW 


CASTELL’S SECRET 


6i 


“And beyond it also,” added Peter; while Margaret 
bowed her stately head in sweet assent. 

“Children,” said Castell, “you will be rich — few richer 
in this land — though mayhap it would be wise that you 
should not show all your wealth at once, or ape the place 
of a great house, lest envy should fall upon your heads 
and crush you. Be content to wait, and rank will find 
you in its season, or if not you, your children. Peter, I 
tell you now, lest I should forget it, that the list of all my 
moneys and other possessions in chattels or lands or ships 
or merchandise is buried beneath the floor of my office, 
just under where my chair stands. Lift the boards and 
dig away a foot of rubbish, and you will find a stone trap, 
and below an iron box with the deeds, inventories, and 
some very precious jewels. Also, if by any mischance 
that box should be lost, duplicates of nearly all these 
papers are in the hands of my good friend and partner in 
our inland, British trade, Simon Levett, whom you know. 
Remember my words, both of you.” 

“Father,” broke in Margaret in an anxious voice, “why 
do you speak of the future thus ? — I mean, as though you 
had no share in it? Do you fear aught?” 

“Yes, daughter, much, or rather I expect, I do not fear, 
who am prepared and desire to meet all things as they 
come. You have sworn that oath, have you not? And 
you will keep it, will you not?” 

“Aye!” they answered with one breath. 

“Then prepare you to feel the weight of the first of those 
trials whereof it speaks, for I will no longer hold back the 
truth from you. Children, I, whom for all these years you 
have thought of your own faith, am a Jew as my forefathers 
were before me, back to the days of Abraham.” 

The effect of this declaration upon its hearers was 


62 


MARGARET 


remarkable. Peter’s jaw dropped, and for the second time 
that day his face went white; while Margaret sank down 
into a chair that stood near by, and stared at him help- 
lessly. In those times it was a very terrible thing to be a 
Jew. Castell looked from one to the other, and, feeling 
the insult of their silence, grew angry. 

“What!” he exclaimed in a bitter voice, “are you like 
all the others? Do you scorn me also because I am of a 
race more ancient and honorable than those of any of your 
mushroom lords and kings? You know my life: say, 
what have I done wrong? Have I caught Christian 
children and crucified them to death ? Have I defrauded 
my neighbor or oppressed the poor? Have I mocked 
your symbol of the Host? Have I conspired against the 
rulers of this land ? Have I been a false friend or a 
cruel father? You shake your heads; then why do you 
stare at me as though I were a thing accursed and unclean ? 
Have I not a right to the faith of my fathers? May I 
not worship God in my own fashion?” And he looked 
at Peter, a challenge in his eyes. 

“Sir,” answered Peter, “without a doubt you may, or 
so it seems to me. But then why for all these years have 
you appeared to worship Him in ours?” 

At this blunt question, so characteristic of the speaker, 
Castell seemed to shrink like a pin-pricked bladder, or 
some bold fighter who has suddenly received a sword- 
thrust in his vitals. All courage went out of the man, his 
fiery eyes grew tame, he appeared to become visibly 
smaller, and to put on something of the air of those men- 
dicants of his own race, who whine out their woes and 
beg alms of the passer-by. When next he spoke, it was 
as a suppliant for merciful judgment at the hands of his 
own child and her lover. 


CASTELL’S SECRET 


63 

Judge me not harshly,” he said. ‘‘Think what it is 
to be a Jew — an outcast, a thing that the lowest may 
spurn and spit at, one beyond the law, one who can be 
hunted from land to land like a mad wolf, and tortured to 
death, when caught, for the sport of gentle Christians, 
who first have stripped him of his gains and very garments. 
And then think what it means to escape all these woes and 
terrors, and, by the doffing of a bonnet, and the mumbling 
of certain prayers with the lips in public, to find sanctuary, 
peace, and protection within the walls of Mother Church, 
and thus fostered, to grow rich and great.” 

He paused as though for a reply, but as they did not 
speak, went on : 

“Moreover, as a child, I was baptized into your Church; 
but my heart, like that of my father, remained with the 
Jews, and where the heart goes the feet follow.” 

“That makes it worse,” said Peter, as though speaking 
to himself. 

“My father taught me thus,” Castell went on, as though 
pleading his case before a court of law. 

“We must answer for our own sins,” said Peter again. 

Then at length Castell took fire. 

“You young folk, who as yet know little of the terrors 
of the world, reproach me with cold looks and colder 
words,” he said; “but I wonder, should you ever come to 
such a pass as mine, whether you will find the heart to 
meet it half as bravely ? Why do you think that I have 
told you this secret, that I might have kept from you as I 
kept it from your mother, Margaret? I say because it 
is a part of my penance for the sin which I have sinned. 
Aye, I know well that my God is a jealous God, and that 
this sin will fall back on my head, and that I shall pay its 
price to the last groat, though when and how the blow 


64 


MARGARET 


will strike me I know not. Go you, Peter, or you, Mar- 
garet, and denounce me if you will. Your priests will 
speak well of you for the deed, and open to you a shorter 
road to Heaven, and I shall not blame you, nor lessen 
your wealth by a single golden noble. 

“Do not speak so madly. Sir,” said Peter; “these mat- 
ters are between you and God. What have we to do 
with them, and who made us judges over you ? We only 
pray that your fears may come to nothing and that you 
may reach your grave in peace and honor.” 

“I thank you for your generous words, which are such 
as befit your nature,” said Castell gently; “but what says 
Margaret?” 

“I, father?” she answered wildly. “Oh! I have 
nothing to say. He is right. It is between you and God ; 
but it is hard that I must lose my love so soon.” 

Peter looked up, and Castell answered : 

“ Lose him 1 Why, what did he swear but now ? ” 

“I care not what he swore; but how can I ask him, who 
is of noble, Christian birth, to marry the daughter of a 
Jew who all his life has passed himself off as a worshiper 
of that Jesus Whom he denies and spits on ? ” 

Now Peter held up his hand. 

“Have done with such talk,” he said. “Were your 
father Judas himself, what is that to you and me? You 
are mine and I am yours till death part us, nor shall the 
faith of another man stand between us for an hour. Sir, 
we thank you for your confidence, and of this be sure, 
that although it makes us sorrowful, we do not love or 
honor you the less because now we know the truth. 

Margaret rose from her chair, looked a while at her 
father, then with a sob threw herself suddenly upon his 
breast. 


CASTELL’S SECRET 


65 


“Forgive me if I spoke bitterly/^ she said, “who, not 
knowing that I was half a Jewess, have been taught to 
hate their race. What is it to me of what faith you are, 
who think of you only as my dearest friend and father?” 

“Why weep then?” asked Castell, stroking her hair 
tenderly. 

“ Because you are in danger, or so you say, and if any- 
thing happened to you — oh! what shall I do then?” 

“Accept it as the will of God, and bear the blow bravely, 
as I hope to do, should it fall,” he answered, and, kissing 
her, left the chapel. 

“It seems that joy and trouble go hand in hand,” said 
Margaret, looking up presently. 

“Yes, Sweet, they were ever twins; but provided we 
have our share of the first, do not let us quarrel with the 
second. A pest on the priests and all their bigotry, say I! 
Christ sought to convert the Jews, not to kill them; and 
for my part I can honor the man who clings to his own 
faith, aye, and forgive him because they forced him to 
feign to belong to ours. Pray then that neither of us may 
live to commit a greater sin, and that we may soon be wed 
and dwell in peace away from London, where we can 
shelter him.” 

“I do — I do,” she answered, drawing close to Peter; 
and soon they forgot their fears and doubts in each other’s 
arms. 

On the following morning, that of Sunday, Peter, Mar- 
garet, and Betty went together to Mass at St. Paul’s 
Church; but Castell said that he was ill, and did not come. 
Indeed, now that his conscience was stirred as to the double 
life he had led so long, he purposed, if he could avoid it, 
to worship in a Christian church no more. Therefore he 
said that he was sick; and they, knowing that this sick- 
5 


66 


MARGARET 


ness was of the heart, answered nothing. But privately 
they wondered what he would do who could not always 
remain sick, since not to go to church and partake of its 
Sacraments was to be published as a heretic. 

But if he did not accompany them himself, Castell, 
without their knowledge, sent two of his stoutest servants, 
bidding these keep near to them and see that they came 
home safe. 

Now, when they left the church Peter saw two Span- 
iards, whose faces he thought he knew, who seemed to be 
watching them, but, as he lost sight of them presently in 
the throng, said nothing. Their shortest way home ran 
across some fields and gardens where there were few 
houses. This lane, then, they followed, talking earnestly 
to each other, and noting nothing till Betty behind them 
called out to them to beware. Then Peter looked up and 
saw the two Spaniards scrambling through a gap in the 
fence not six paces ahead of them, saw also that they laid 
their hands upon their sword-hilts. 

“Let us pass them boldly,” he muttered to Margaret; 
“I’ll not turn my back on a brace of Spaniards”; but he 
also laid his hand upon the hilt of the sword he wore 
beneath his cloak, and bade her get behind him. 

Thus, then, they came face to face. Now, the Span- 
iards, who were evil-looking fellows, bowed courteously 
enough, and asked if he were not Master Peter Brome. 
They spoke in Spanish; but, like Margaret, Peter knew this 
tongue, if not too well, having been taught it as a child, 
and practised it much since he came into the service of 
John Castell, who used it largely in his trade. 

“Yes,” he answered. “What is your business with 
me?” 

“We have a message for you, Senor, from a certain 


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“YOU MEAN THAT YOU WISH TO MURDER ME” 


CASTELL’S SECRET 


67 


comrade of ours, one Andrew, a Scotchman, whom you 
met a few nights ago,” replied the spokesman of the pair. 
‘‘He is dead, but still he sends his message, and it is that 
we should ask you to join him at once. Now, all of us 
brothers have sworn to deliver that message, and to see 
that you keep the tryst. If some of us should chance to 
fail, tjien others will meet you with the message until you 
keep that tryst.” 

“You mean that you wish to murder me,” said Peter, 
setting his mouth and drawing the sword from beneath 
his cloak. Well, come on, cowards, and we will see whom 
Andrew gets for company in hell to-day. Run back, 
Margaret and Betty — run.” And he tore off his cloak 
and threw it over his left arm. 

So for a moment they stood, for he looked fierce and ill 
to deal with. Then, just as they began to feint in front 
of him, there came a rush of feet, and on either side of 
Peter appeared the two stout serving-men, also sword in 
hand. 

“I am glad of your company,” he said, catching sight 
of them out of the comers of his eyes. “Now, Senors 
Cut-throats, do you still wish to deliver that message?” 

The answer of the Spaniards, who saw themselves thus 
unexpectedly out-matched, was to turn and mn, whereon 
one of the serving-men, picking up a big stone that lay in 
the path, hurled it after them with all his force. It struck 
the hindmost Spaniard full in the back, and so heavy 
was the blow that he fell on to his face in the mud, 
whence he rose and limped away, cursing them with 
strange, Spanish oaths, and vowing vengeance. 

“Now,” said Peter, “I think that we may go home in 
safety, for no more messengers will come from Andrew 
to-day.” 


68 


MARGARET 


“No,” gasped Margaret, “not to-day, but to-morrow, 
or the next day they will come, and oh! how will it end ?” 

“That God knows alone,” answered Peter gravely as 
he sheathed his sword. 

When the story of this attempt was told to Castell he 
seemed much disturbed. 

“ It is clear that they have a blood-feud against you on 
account of that Scotchman whom you killed in self- 
defence,” he said anxiously. “Also these Spaniards are 
very revengeful, nor have they forgiven you for calling the 
English to your aid against them. Peter, I fear that if 
you go abroad they will murder you.” 

“Well, I cannot stay indoors always, like a rat in a 
drain,” said Peter crossly, “ so what is to be done ? Appeal 
to the law?” 

“No; for you have just broken the law by killing a man. 
I think you had best go away for a while till this storm 
blows over.” 

“Go away! Peter go away?” broke in Margaret, 
dismayed. 

“Yes,” answered her father. “Listen, daughter. You 
cannot be married at once. It is not seemly; moreover, 
notice must be given and arrangement made. A month 
hence will be soon enough, and that is not long for you to 
wait who only became affianced yesterday. Also, until 
you are married, no word must be said to any one of this 
betrothal of yours, lest those Spaniards should lay their 
feud at your door also, and work you some mischief. 
Let none know of it I charge you, and in company be 
distant to each other, as though there were nothing 
between you.” 

“As you will. Sir,” replied Peter; “but for my part I 
do not like all these hidings of the truth, which ever lead 


CASTELL’S SECRET 69 

to future trouble. I say, let me bide here and take my 
chance, and let us be wed as soon as may be.5y 

“That your wife may be made a widow before the 
week is out, or the house burnt about our ears by these 
rascals and their following? No, no, Peter; walk softly 
that you may walk safely. We will hear the report of the 
Spaniard d’Aguilar, and afterwards take counsel.’^ 


CHAPTER VI 

FAREWELL 

D ’Aguilar came to supper that night as he had prom- 
ised, and this time not on foot and unattended, but with 
pomp and circumstance as befitted a great lord. First 
appeared two running footmen to clear the way; then 
followed d’Aguilar, mounted on a fine white horse, and 
splendidly apparelled in a velvet cloak and a hat with 
nodding ostrich plumes, while after him rode four men- 
at-arms in his livery. 

“We asked one guest, or rather he asked himself, and 
we have got seven, to say nothing of their horses,” grum- 
bled Castell, watching their approach from an upper 
window. “Well, we must make the best of it. Peter, 
go, see that man and beast are fed, and fully, that they 
may not grumble at our hospitality. The guard can eat 
in the little hall with our own folk. Margaret, put on 
your richest robe and your jewels, those which you wore 
when I took you to that city feast last summer. We will 
show these fine, foreign birds that we London merchants 
have brave feathers also.” 

Peter hesitated, misdoubting him of the wisdom of this 
display, who, if he could have his will, would have sent 
the Spaniard’s following to the tavern, and received him 
in sober garments to a simple meal. 

70 


FAREWELL 


71 


But Castell, who seemed somewhat disturbed that night, 
who loved, moreover, to show his wealth at times after 
the fashion of a Jew, began to fume and ask if he must 
go himself. So the end of it was that Peter went, shaking 
his head, while, urged to it by her father, Margaret 
departed also to array herself. 

A few minutes later Castell, in his costliest feast-day 
robe, greeted d’ Aguilar in the ante-hall, and, the two of 
them being alone, asked him how matters went as regarded 
de Ayala and the man who had been killed. 

“Well and ill,” answered d’ Aguilar. “Doctor de 
Puebla, with whom I hoped to deal, has left London in 
a huff, for he says that there is not room for two Spanish 
ambassadors at Court, so I had to fall back upon de 
Ayala after all. Indeed, twice have I seen that exalted 
priest upon the subject of the well-deserved death of his 
villainous servant, and, after much difficulty, for having 
lost several men in such brawls, he thought his honor 
touched, he took the fifty gold angels — to be transmitted 
to the fellow’s family, of course, or so he said — and 
gave a receipt. Here it is,” and he handed a paper to 
Castell, who read it carefully. 

It was to the effect that Peter Brome, having paid a 
sum of fifty angels to the relatives of Andrew Pherson, a 
servant of the Spanish ambassador, which Andrew the 
said Peter had killed in a brawl, the said ambassador 
undertook not to prosecute or otherwise molest the said 
Peter on account of the manslaughter which he had 
committed. 

“But no money has been paid,” said Castell. 

“Indeed yes, I paid it. De Ayala gives no receipts 
against promises.” 

“I thank you for your courtesy, Senor. You shall 


72 


MARGARET 


have the gold before you leave this house. Few would 
have trusted a stranger thus far.’^ 

D ’Aguilar waved his hand. 

“Make no mention of such a trifle. I would ask you 
to accept it as a token of my regard for your family, only 
that would be to affront so wealthy a man. But listen, 
I have more to say. You are, or rather your kinsman 
Peter is, still in the wood. De Ayala has pardoned him; 
but there remains the King of England, whose law he 
has broken. Well, this day I have seen the King, who, 
by the way, talked of you as a worthy man, saying that 
he had always thought only a Jew could be so wealthy, 
and that he knew you were not, since you had been 
reported to him as a good son of the Church,” and he 
paused, looking at Castell. 

“I fear his Grace magnifies my wealth, which is but 
small,” answered Castell coolly, leaving the rest of his 
speech unnoticed. “But what said his Grace?” 

“I showed him de Ayala’s receipt, and he answered that 
if his Excellency was satisfied, he was satisfied, and for 
his part would not order any process to issue; but he 
bade me tell you and Peter Brome that if he caused more 
tumult in his streets, whatever the provocation, and 
especially if that tumult were between English and 
Spaniards, he would hang him at once with trial or with- 
out it. All of which he said very angrily, for the last 
thing which his Highness desires just now is any noise 
between Spain and England.” 

“That is bad,” answered Castell, “for this very morn- 
ing there was near to being such a tumult,” and he told 
the story of how the two Spaniards had waylaid Peter, 
and one of them been knocked down by the serving-man 
with a stone. 


FAREWELL 


73 


At this news d’ Aguilar shook his head. 

“Then that is just where the trouble lies,” he exclaimed. 
“I know it from my people, who keep me well informed, 
that all those servants of de Ayala, and there are more 
than twenty of them, have sworn an oath by the Virgin 
of Seville that before they leave this land they will have 
your kinsman’s blood in payment for that of Andrew 
Pherson, who, although a Scotchman, was their officer, 
and a brave man whom they loved much. Now, if they 
attack him, as they will, there must be a brawl, for Peter 
fights well, and if there is a brawl, though Peter and the 
English get the best of it, as very likely they may, Peter 
will certainly be hanged, for so the king has promised.” 

“ Before they leave the land ? When do they leave it ? ” 

“ De Ayala sails within a month, and his folk with him, 
for his co-ambassador, the Doctor de Puebla, will bear 
with him no more, and has written from the country house 
where he is sulking that one of them must go.” 

“Then I think it is best, Senor, that Peter should 
travel for a month.” 

“Friend Castell, you are wise; I think so too, and, I 
counsel you, arrange it at once. Hush! here comes the 
lady, your daughter.” 

As he spoke, Margaret appeared descending the broad 
oak stairs which led into the anteroom. Holding a lamp 
in her hand, she was in full light, whereas the two men 
stood in the shadow. She wore a low-cut dress of crimson 
velvet, embroidered about the bodice with dead gold, 
which enhanced the dazzling whiteness of her shapely 
neck and bosom. Round her throat hung a string of 
great pearls, and on her head was a net of gold, studded 
with smaller pearls, from beneath which her glorious, 
chestnut-black hair flowed down in rippling waves almost 


74 


MARGARET 


to her knees. Having her father’s bidding so to do, she 
had adorned herself thus that she might look her fairest, 
not in the eyes of their guest, but in those of her new- 
affianced husband. So fair was she seen thus that 
d’Aguilar, the artist, the adorer of loveliness, caught his 
breath and shivered at the sight of her. 

“By the eleven thousand virgins!” he said, “your 
daughter is more beautiful than all of them put together. 
She should be crowned a queen, and bewitch the world.” 

“Nay, nay, Senor,” answered Castell hurriedly; “let 
her remain humble and honest, and bewitch her husband.” 

“So I should say if I were the husband,” he muttered, 
then stepped forward, bowing, to meet her. 

Now, the light of the silver lamp she held on high 
flowed over the two of them, d’Aguilar and Margaret, 
and certainly they seemed a well-matched pair. Both 
were tall and cast by Nature in a rich and splendid mould; 
both had that high air of breeding which comes with 
ancient blood — for what bloods are more ancient than 
those of the Jew and the Eastern ? — both were slow and 
stately of movement, low-voiced, and dignified of speech. 
Castell noted it and was afraid, he knew not of what. 

Peter, entering the room by another door, clad only in 
his grey clothes, for he would not put on gay garments 
for the Spaniard, noted it also, and with the quick instinct 
of love knew this magnificent foreigner for a rival and an 
enemy. But he was not afraid, only jealous and angry. 
Indeed, nothing would have pleased him better then than 
that the Spaniard should have struck him in the face, so 
that within five minutes it might be shown which of them 
was the better man. It must come to this, he felt, and 
very glad would he have been if it could come at the 
beginning and not at the end, so that one or the other of 


FAREWELL 


75 


them might be saved much trouble. Then he remem- 
bered that he had promised to say or show nothing of 
how things stood between him and Margaret, and, coming 
forward, he greeted d’Aguilar quietly but coldly, telling 
him that his horses had been stabled, and his retinue 
accommodated. 

The Spaniard thanked him very heartily, and they 
passed in to supper. It was a strange meal for all four 
of them, yet outwardly pleasant enough. Forgetting his 
cares, Castell drank gayly, and began to talk of the many 
changes which he had seen in his life, and of the rise and 
fall of kings. D’Aguilar talked also, of the Spanish wars 
and policy, for in the first he had seen much service, and 
of the other he knew every turn. It was easy to see that 
he was one of those who mixed with courts, and had the 
ear of ministers and majesty. Margaret also, being keen- 
witted, and anxious to learn of the great world that lay 
beyond Holborn and London town, asked questions, 
seeking to know, amongst other things, what were the 
true characters of Ferdinand, King of Aragon, and 
Isabella his wife, the famous queen. 

‘‘I will tell you in a few words, Senora. Ferdinand is 
the most ambitious man in Europe, false also if it serves 
his purpose. He lives for self and gain — that is, money 
and power. These are his gods, for he has no true reli- 
gion. He is not clever, but, being very cunning, he will 
succeed and leave a famous name behind him.” 

“An ugly picture,” said Margaret. “And what of his 
queen?” 

“She,” answered d’Aguilar, “is a great woman, who 
knows how to use the temper of her time and so attain 
her ends. To the world she shows a tender heart, but 
beneath it lies hid an iron resolution.” 


76 


MARGARET 


“What are those ends?” asked Margaret again. 

“To bring all Spain under her rule; utterly to crush the 
Moors and take their territories; to make the Church of 
Christ triumphant upon earth; to stamp out heresy; to 
convert or destroy the Jews,” he added slowly, and as he 
spoke the words, Peter, watching, saw his eyes open and 
glitter like a snake’s — “to bring their bodies to the 
purifying flames, and their vast wealth into her treasury, 
and thus earn the praise of the faithful upon earth, and 
for herself a throne in Heaven.” 

For a while there was silence after this speech, then 
Margaret said boldly: 

“If heavenly thrones are built of human blood and 
tears, what stone and mortar do they use in hell, I won- 
der.” Then, without pausing for an answer, she rose, 
saying that she was weary, curtseyed to d’Aguilar, her 
father, and Peter, each in turn, and left the hall. 

When she had gone the talk flagged, and presently 
d’Aguilar asked for his men and horses and departed 
also, saying as he went: 

“Friend Castell, you will repeat my news to your good 
kinsman here. I pray for all your sakes that he may 
bow his head to what cannot be helped, and thus keep 
it safe upon his shoulders.” 

“What meant the man?” asked Peter, when the sound 
of the horses’ hoofs had died away. 

Castell told him of what had passed between him and 
d’Aguilar before supper, and showed him de Ayala’s 
receipt, adding in a vexed voice: 

“I have forgotten to repay him the gold; it shall be 
sent to-morrow.” 

“Have no fear; he will come for it,” answered Peter 
coldly. “Now, if I have my way I will take the risk of 


FAREWELL 


77 

these Spaniards’ swords and King Henry’s rope, and 
bide here.” 

“That you must not do,” said Castell earnestly, “for 
my sake and Margaret’s, if not for yours. Would you 
make her a widow before she is a wife ? Listen : it is my 
wish that you travel down to Essex to take delivery of 
your father’s land in the Vale of Dedham and see to the 
repairing of the mansion house, which, I am told, needs 
it much. Then, when these Spaniards are gone you can 
return and at once be married, say one short month 
hence.” 

“Will not you and Margaret come with me to Ded- 
ham?” 

Castell shook his head. 

“It is not possible. I must wind up my affairs, and 
Margaret cannot go with you alone. Moreover, there is 
no place for her to lodge. I will keep her here till you 
return.” 

“Yes, Sir; but will you keep her safe? The cozening 
words of Spaniards are sometimes more deadly than their 
swords.” 

“I think that Margaret has a medicine against all 
such arts,” answered her father with a little smile, and 
left him. 

On the morrow when Castell told Margaret that her 
lover must leave her for a while that night — for this 
Peter would not do himself — she prayed him even with 
tears that he would not send him so far from her, or that 
they might all go together. But he reasoned with her 
kindly, showing her that the latter was impossible, and 
that if Peter did not go at once it was probable that Peter 
would soon be dead, whereas, if he went, there would be 
but one short month of waiting till the Spaniards had 


78 


MARGARET 


sailed, after which they might be married and live in 
peace and safety. 

So she came to see that this was best and wisest, and 
gave way; but oh! heavy were those hours, and sore was 
their parting. Essex was no far journey, and to enter 
into lands which only two days before Peter believed he 
had lost for ever no sad errand, while the promise that at 
the end of a single month he should return to claim his 
bride hung before them like a star. Yet they were sad- 
hearted, both of them, and that star seemed very far away. 

Margaret was afraid lest Peter might be waylaid upon 
the road, but he laughed at her, saying that her father was 
sending six stout men with him as an escort, and thus 
companioned he feared no Spaniards. Peter, for his part, 
was afraid lest d’Aguilar might make love to her while 
he was away. But she laughed at him, saying that all 
her heart was his, and that she had none to give to d’Agui- 
lar or any other man. Moreover, that England was a 
free land in which women, who were no king’s wards, 
could not be led whither they did not wish to go. So it 
seemed that they had nought to fear, save the daily chance 
of life and death. And yet they were afraid. 

“Dear love,” said Margaret to him after she had 
thought a while, “our road looks straight and easy, and 
yet there may be pitfalls in it that we cannot guess. 
Therefore you shall swear one thing to me: That what- 
ever you shall hear or whatever may happen, you will 
never doubt me as I shall never doubt you. If, for in- 
stance, you should be told that I have discarded you, and 
given myself to some other husband; if even you should 
believe that you see it signed by my hand, or if you think 
that you hear it told to you by my voice — still I say, 
believe it not.” 


FAREWELL 


79 


“How could such a thing be?” asked Peter anxiously. 

“I do not suppose that it could be; I only paint the 
worst that might happen as a lesson for us both. Hereto- 
fore my life has been calm as a summer’s day; but who 
knows when winter storms may rise, and often I have 
thought that I was born to know wind and rain and 
lightning as well as peace and sunshine. Remember that 
my father is a Jew, and that to the Jews and their children 
terrible things chance at times. Why, all this wealth 
might vanish in an hour, and you might find me in a 
prison, or clad in rags begging my bread. Now do you 
swear?” and she held towards him the gold crucifix that 
hung upon her bosom. 

“Aye,” he said, “I swear it by this token and by 
your holy lips,” and he kissed first the cross and then 
her mouth, adding, “Shall I ask the same oath of 
you?” 

She laughed. 

“If you will; but it is not needful. Peter, I think that 
I know you too well; I think that your heart will never 
stir even if I be dead and you married to another. And 
yet men are men, and women have wiles, so I will swear 
this: That should you slip, perchance, and I live to learn 
it, I will try not to judge you harshly.” And again she 
laughed, she who was so certain of her empire over this 
man’s heart and body. 

“Thank you,” said Peter; “but for my part I will 
try to stand straight upon my feet, so should any 
tales be brought to you of me, sift them well, I pray 
you.” 

Then, forgetting their doubts and dreads, they talked 
of their marriage, which they fixed for that day month, 
and of how they would dwell happily in Dedham Vale. 


8o 


MARGARET 


Also Margaret, who well knew the house, named the Old 
Hall, where they should live, for she had stayed there as 
a child, gave him many commands as to the new arrange- 
ment of its chambers and its furnishing, which, as there 
was money and to spare, could be as costly as they willed, 
saying that she would send him down all things by wain 
so soon as he was ready for them. 

Thus, then, the hours wore away, until at length night 
came and they took their last meal together, the three of 
them, for it was arranged that Peter should start at 
moonrise, when none were about to see him go. It was 
not a very happy meal, and, though they made a brave 
show of eating, but little food passed their lips. Now 
the horses were ready, and Margaret buckled on Peter’s 
sword and threw his cloak about his shoulders, and he, 
having shaken Castell by the hand and bade him guard 
their jewel safely, without words kissed her in farewell, 
and went. 

Taking the silver lamp in her hand, she followed him 
to the anteroom. At the door he turned and saw her 
standing there gazing after him with wide eyes and a 
strained, white face. At the sight of her silent pain almost 
his heart failed him, almost he refused to go. Then he 
remembered, and went. 

For a while Margaret still stood thus, until the sound 
of the horses’ hoofs had died away indeed. Then she 
turned and said: 

“Father, I know not how it is, but it seems to me that 
when Peter and I meet again it will be far off, yes, far off 
upon the stormy sea — but what sea I know not.” And 
without waiting for an answer she climbed the stairs to 
her chamber, and there wept herself to sleep. 

Castell watched her depart, then muttered to himself: 


FAREWELL 


8i 


“Pray God she is not foresighted like so many of our 
race; and yet why is my own heart so heavy? Well, 
according to my judgment, I have done my best for him 
and her, and for myself I care nothing.” 


6 


CHAPTER VII 

NEWS FROM SPAIN 

Peter Brome was a very quiet man, whose voice was 
not often heard about the place, and yet it was strange 
how dull and different the big, old house in Holbom 
seemed without him. Even the handsome Betty, with 
whom he was never on the best of terms, since there was 
much about her of which he disapproved, missed him, 
and said so to her cousin, who only answered with a sigh. 
For in the bottom of her heart Betty both feared and 
respected Peter. The fear was of his observant eyes and 
caustic words, which she knew were always words of 
truth, and the respect for the general uprightness of his 
character, especially where her own sex was concerned. 

In fact, as has been hinted, two years or so before, 
when Peter had first come to live with the Castells, Betty, 
thinking him a proper man of gentle birth, such a one 
indeed as she would wish to marry, had made advances 
to him, which, as he did not seem to notice them, became 
by degrees more and more marked. What happened at 
last they two knew alone, but it was something that 
caused Betty to become very angry, and to speak of 
Peter to her friends as a cold-blooded lout who thought 
only of work and gain. The episode was passing, and 
82 


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83 


soon forgotten by the lady in the press of other affairs; 
but the respect remained. Moreover, on one or two occa- 
sions, when the love of admiration had led her into griefs, 
Peter had proved a good friend, and what was better, a 
friend who did not talk. Therefore she wished him back 
again, especially now, when something that was more 
than mere vanity and desire for excitement had taken 
hold of her, and Betty found herself being swept off her 
feet into very deep and doubtful waters. 

The shopmen and the servants missed him also, for to 
him all disputes were brought for settlement, nor, pro- 
vided it were not through a lack of honesty, were any 
pains too great for him to take to help them in a trouble. 
Most of all Castell missed him, since until Peter had gone 
he did not know how much he had learned to rely upon 
him, both in his business and as a friend. As for 
Margaret, her life without him was one long, empty 
night. 

Thus it came about that in such a house any change 
was welcome, and, though she liked him little enough, 
Margaret was not even displeased when one morning 
Betty told her that the lord d’Aguilar was coming to call 
on her that day, and purposed to bring her a present. 

‘‘I do not seek his presents,’’ said Margaret indifferently; 
then added, “But how do you know that, Betty?” 

The young woman colored, and tossed her head as she 
answered : 

“ I know it, cousin, because, as I was going to visit my 
old aunt yesterday, who lives on the wharf at Westminster, 
I met him riding, and he called out to me, saying that he 
had a present for you and one for me also.” 

“Be careful you do not meet him too often, Betty, 
when you chance to be visiting your aunt. These Span- 


84 


MARGARET 


iards are not always over-honest, as you may learn to 
your sorrow.” 

'‘I thank you for your good counsel,” said Betty shortly, 
'‘but I, who am older than you, know enough of men to 
be able to guard myself, and can keep them at a distance.” 

“I am glad of it, Betty, only sometimes I have thought 
that the distance was scarcely wide enough,” answered 
Margaret, and left the subject, for she was thinking of 
other things. 

That afternoon, when Margaret was walking in the 
garden, Betty, whose face seemed somewhat flushed, ran 
up to her and said that the lord d’Aguilar was waiting in 
the hall. 

“Very good,” answered Margaret, “I will come. Go, 
tell my father, that he may join us. But why are you so 
disturbed and hurried?” she added wonderingly. 

“Oh!” answered Betty, “he has brought me a present, 
so fine a present — a mantle of the most wonderful lace 
that ever I saw, and a comb of mottled shell mounted in 
gold to keep it off the hair. He made me wait while he 
showed me how to put it on, and that was why I ran.” 

Margaret did not quite see the connection; but she 
answered slowly: 

“Perhaps it would have been wiser if you had run 
first. I do not understand why this fine lord brings you 
presents.” 

“ But he has brought one for you also. Cousin, although 
he would not say what it was.” 

“That I understand still less. Go, tell my father that 
the senor d’Aguilar awaits him.” 

Then she went into the hall, and found d’Aguilar 
looking at an illuminated Book of Hours in which she 
had been reading, that was written in Spanish in one 


NEWS FROM SPAIN 


85 

column and in Latin in that opposite to it. He greeted 
her in his usual graceful way, that, where Margaret was 
concerned, was easy and well-bred without being bold, 
and said at once: 

“So you read Spanish, Senora?” 

“A little. Not very well, I fear.” 

“And Latin also?” 

“A little again. I have been taught that tongue. By 
studying them thus I try to improve myself in both.” 

“I perceive that you are learned as you are beautiful,” 
and he bowed courteously. 

“I thank you, Senor; but I lay claim to neither grace.” 

“What need is there to claim that which is evident?” 
replied d’Aguilar; then added, “but I forgot, I have 
brought you a present, if you will be pleased to accept it. 
Or, rather, I bring you what is your own, or at the least 
your father’s. I bargained with his Excellency Don de 
Ayala, pointing out that fifty gold angels were too much 
to pay for that dead rogue of his; but he would give me 
nothing back in money, since with gold he never parts. 
Yet I won some change from him, and it stands without 
your door. It is a Spanish jennet of the true Moorish 
blood, which, hundreds of years ago, that people brought 
with them from the East. He needs it no longer, as he 
returns to Spain, and it is trained to bear a lady.” 

Margaret did not know what to answer, but, fortunately, 
at that moment her father appeared, and to him d’Aguilar 
repeated his tale, adding that he had heard his daughter 
say that the horse she rode had fallen with her, so that 
she could use it no more. 

Now, Castell did not wish to accept this gift, for such 
he felt it to be; but d’Aguilar assured him that if he did 
not he must sell it and return him the price in money, as 


86 


MARGARET 


it did not belong to him. So, there being no help for it, 
he thanked him in his daughter’s name and his own, and 
they went into the stable-yard, whither it had been taken, 
to look at this horse. 

The moment that Castell saw it he knew that it was a 
creature of great value, pure white in color, with a long, 
low body, small head, gentle eyes, round hoofs, and 
flowing mane and tail, such a horse, indeed, as a queen 
might have ridden. Now again he was confused, being 
sure that this beast had never been given back as a luck- 
penny, since it would have fetched more than the fifty 
angels on the market; moreover, it was harnessed with a 
woman’s saddle and bridle of the most beautifully worked 
red Cordova leather, to which were attached a silver bit 
and stirrup. But d’Aguilar smiled, and vowed that things 
were as he had told them, so there was nothing more to 
be said. Margaret, too, was so pleased with the mare, 
which she longed to ride, that she forgot her scruples, and 
tried to believe that this was so. Noting her delight, 
which she could not conceal as she patted the beautiful 
beast, d’Aguilar said : 

“Now I will ask one thing in return for the bargain 
that I have made — that I may see you mount this horse 
for the first time. You told me that you and your father 
were wont to go out together in the morning. Have I 
your leave. Sir,” and he turned to Castell, “to ride with 
you before breakfast, say, at seven of the clock, for I 
would show the lady, your daughter, how she should 
manage a horse of this blood, which is something of a 
trick?” 

“If you will,” answered Castell — “that is, if the 
weather is fine,” for the offer was made so courteously 
that it could scarcely be refused. 


NEWS FROM SPAIN 


87 

D’Aguilar bowed, and they re-entered the house, talking 
of other matters. When they were in the hall again he 
asked whether their kinsman Peter had reached his 
destination safely, adding: 

“I pray you, do not tell me where it is, for I wish to 
be able to put my hand upon my heart and swear to all 
concerned, and especially to certain fellows who are still 
seeking for him, that I know nothing of his hiding-place.’^ 

Castell answered that he had, since but a few minutes 
before a letter had come from him announcing his safe 
arrival, tidings at which Margaret looked up, then, re- 
membering her promise, said that she was glad to hear 
of it, as the roads were none too safe, and spoke indiffer- 
ently of something else. D’Aguilar added that he also 
was glad, then, rising, took his leave “till seven on the 
morrow.” 

When he had gone Castell gave Margaret a letter, 
addressed to her in Peter’s stiff, upright hand, which she 
read eagerly. It began and ended with sweet words, but, 
like his speech, was brief and to the point, saying only 
that he had accomplished his journey without adventure, 
and was very glad to find himself again in the old house 
where he was bom, and amongst familiar fields and faces. 
On the morrow he was to see the tradesmen as to altera- 
tions and repairs which were much needed, even the moat 
being choked with mud and weeds. His last sentence 
was, “I much mistmst me of that fine Spaniard, and I 
am jealous to think that he should be near to you while 
I am far away. Beware of him, I say — beware of him. 
May the Mother of God and all the saints have you in 
their keepings! Your most true affianced lover.” 

This letter Margaret answered before she slept, for the 
messenger was to return at dawn, telling Peter, amongst 


88 


MARGARET 


Other things, of the gift which d’Aguilar had brought her, 
and how she and her father were forced to accept it, but 
bidding him not be jealous, since, although that gift was 
welcome, she liked the giver little, who did but count the 
hours till her true love should come back again and take 
her to himself. 

Next morning she was up early, clothed in her riding- 
dress, for the day was very fine, and by seven o’clock 
d’Aguilar appeared, mounted on a great horse. Then 
the Spanish jennet was brought out, and deftly he lifted 
her to the saddle, showing her how she must pull but 
lightly on the reins, and urge or check her steed with her 
voice alone, using no whip or spur. 

A perfect beast it proved to be, indeed, gentle as a lamb, 
and easy, yet very spirited and swift. 

D’Aguilar was a pleasant cavalier also, talking of many 
things grave and gay, until at length even Castell forgot 
his thoughts, and grew cheerful as they cantered forward 
through the fresh spring morning by heath and hill and 
woodland, listening to the singing of the birds, and 
watching the husbandmen at their labor. 

This ride was but the first of several that they took, 
since d’Aguilar knew their hours of exercise, even when 
they changed them, and whether they asked him or not, 
joined or met them in such a natural fashion that they 
could not refuse his company. Indeed, they were much 
puzzled to know how he came to be so well acquainted 
with their movements, and even with the direction in 
which they proposed to ride, but supposed that he must 
have it from the grooms, although these were commanded 
to say nothing, and always denied having spoken with 
him. That Betty should speak of such matters, or even 
find opportunity of doing so, never chanced to cross their 


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89 


minds, who did not guess that if they rode with d’Aguilar 
in the morning, Betty often walked with him in the 
evening when she was supposed to be at church, or sewing, 
or visiting her aunt upon the wharf at Westminster. But 
of these walks the foolish girl said nothing, for her own 
reasons. 

Now, as they rode together, although he remained very 
courteous and respectful, the manner of d’Aguilar towards 
Margaret grew ever more close and intimate. Thus he 
began to tell her stories, true or false, of his past life, 
which seemed to have been strange and eventful enough; 
to hint, too, of a certain hidden greatness that pertained 
to him which he did not dare to show, and of high ambi- 
tions which he had. He spoke also of his loneliness, and 
his desire to lose it in the companionship of a kindred 
heart, if he could find one to share his wealth, his station, 
and his hopes; while all the time his dark eyes fixed on 
Margaret seemed to say, “The heart I seek is such a one 
as yours.” 

At length, at some murmured word or touch, she took 
affright, and, since she could not avoid him abroad, 
determined to stay at home, and, much as she loved the 
sport, to ride no more till Peter should return. So she 
gave out that she had hurt her knee, which made the 
saddle painful to her, and the beautiful Spanish mare 
was left idle in the stable, or mounted only by the groom. 

Thus for some days she was rid of d’Aguilar, and em- 
ployed herself in reading and working, or in writing long 
letters to Peter, who was busy enough at Dedham, and 
sent her thence many commissions to fulfil. 

One afternoon Castell was seated in his office deci- 
phering letters which had just reached him. The night 
before his best ship, of over two hundred tons burden, 


90 


MARGARET 


which was named the Margaret^ after his daughter, had 
come safely into the mouth of the Thames from Spain. 
That evening she was to reach her berth at Gravesend 
with the tide, when Castell proposed to go aboard of her 
to see to the unloading of her cargo. This was the last 
of his ships which remained unsold, and it was his plan 
to re-load and victual her at once with goods that were 
waiting, and send her back to the port of Seville, where 
his Spanish partners, in whose name she was already 
registered, had agreed to take her over at a fixed price. 
This done, it was only left for him to hand over his busi- 
ness to the merchants who had purchased it in London, 
after which he would be free to depart, a very wealthy 
man, and spend the evening of his days at peace in Essex, 
with his daughter and her husband, as now he so greatly 
longed to do. So soon as they were within the river 
banks the captain of this ship, Smith by name, had 
landed the cargo-master with letters and a manifest of 
cargo, bidding him hire a horse and bring them to Master 
CastelPs house in Holbom. This the man had done 
safely, and it was these letters that Castell read. 

One of them was from his, partner Bemaldez in Seville ; 
not in answer to that which he had written on the night 
of the opening of this history — for this there had been 
no time — yet dealing with matters whereof it treated. 
In it was this passage: 

“You will remember what I wrote to you of a certain 
envoy who has been sent to the Court of I^ondon, who is 
called d’Aguilar, for as our cipher is so secret, and it is 
important that you should be warned, I take the risk of 
writing his name. Since that letter I have learned more 
concerning this grandee, for such he is. Although he 
calls himself plain Don d’Aguilar, in truth he is the Mar- 


NEWS FROM SPAIN 


91 


quis of Morelia, and on one side, it is said, of royal blood, 
if not on both, since he is reported to be the son bom 
out of wedlock of Prince Carlos of Viana, the half-brother 
of the king. The tale runs that Carlos, the learned and 
gentle, fell in love with a Moorish lady of Aguilar of high 
birth and great wealth, for she had rich estates at Granada 
and elsewhere, and, as he might not marry her because 
of the difference of their rank and faiths, lived with her 
without marriage, of which union one son was bom. 
Before Prince Carlos died, or was poisoned, and while he 
was still a prisoner at Morelia, he gave to, or procured 
for this boy the title of marquis, choosing from some 
fancy the name of Morelia, that place where he had 
suffered so much. Also he settled some private lands 
upon him. After the prince died, the Moorish lady, his 
lover, who had secretly become a Christian, took her son 
to live at her palace in Granada, where she died also some 
ten years ago, leaving all her great wealth to him, for she 
never married. At this time it is said that his life was in 
danger, for the reason that, although he was half a Moor, 
too much of the blood-royal ran in his veins. But the 
Marquis was clever, and persuaded the king and queen 
that he had no ambition beyond his pleasures. Also the 
Church interceded for him, since to it he proved himself 
a faithful son, persecuting all heretics, especially the Jews, 
and even Moors, although they are of his own blood. So 
in the end he was confirmed in his possessions and left 
alone, although he refused to become a priest. 

“Since then he has been made an agent of the Crown 
at Granada, and employed upon various embassies to 
London, Rome, and elsewhere, on matters connected with 
the faith and the establishment of the Holy Inquisition. 
That is why he is again in England at this moment, being 


92 


MARGARET 


charged to obtain the names and particulars concerning 
all Maranos settled there, especially if they trade with 
this country. I have seen the names of those of whom 
he must inquire most closely, and that is why I write to 
you so fully, since yours is first upon the list. I think, 
therefore, that you do wisely to wind up your business 
with this country, and especially to sell your ships to us 
outright and quickly, since otherwise they might be 
seized — like yourself, if you came here. My counsel to 
you is — hide your wealth, which will be great when we 
have paid you all we owe, and go somewhere where you 
will be forgotten for a while, since that bloodhound 
d’Aguilar, for so he calls himself, after his mother^s 
birthplace, has not tracked you to London for nothing. 
As yet, thanks be to God, no suspicion has fallen on any 
of us; perhaps because we have many in our pay.’^ 

When Castell had finished transcribing all this passage 
he read it through carefully. Then he went into the hall, 
where a fire burned, for the day was cold, and threw the 
translation on to it, watching until it was consumed, after 
which he returned to his ofiice, and hid away the letter in 
a secret cupboard behind the panelling of the wall. This 
done, he sat himself ' in his chair to think. 

“My good friend Juan Bemaldez is right,” he said to 
himself; “d’Aguilar, or the Marquis Morelia, does not 
nose me and the others out for nothing. Well, I shall not 
trust myself in Spain, and the money, most of it, except 
what is still to come from Spain, is put out where it will 
never be found by him, at good interest too. All seems 
safe enough — and yet I would to God that Peter and 
Margaret were fast married, and that we three sat to- 
gether, out of sight and mind, in the Old Hall at Dedham. 
I have carried on this game too long. I should have 


NEWS FROM SPAIN 


93 


closed my books a year ago ; but the trade was so good that 
I could not. I was wise also, who in this one lucky year 
have nearly doubled my fortune. And yet it would have 
been safer, before they guessed that I was so rich. Greed 
— mere greed — for I do not need this money which may 
destroy us all! Greed! The ancient pitfall of my race.^’ 

As he thought thus there came a knock upon his door. 
Snatching up a pen he dipped it in the ink-horn and, 
calHng “Enter,’^ began to add a column of figures on a 
paper before him. 

The door opened; but he seemed to take no heed, so 
diligently did he count his figures. Yet, although his 
eyes were fixed upon the paper in some way that he 
could not understand, he was well aware that d’Aguilar 
and no other stood in the room behind him, the truth 
being, no doubt, that unconsciously he had recognized 
his footstep. For a moment the knowledge turned him 
cold — he who had just been reading of the mission of 
this man — and feared what was to come. Yet he acted 
well. 

“Why do you disturb me. Daughter?” he said testily, 
and without looking round. “Have not things gone ill 
enough with half the cargo destroyed by sea-water, and 
the rest, that you must trouble me while I sum up my 
losses?” And, casting the pen down, he turned his chair 
round impatiently. 

Yes! there sure enough stood d’Aguilar, very hand- 
somely arrayed, and smiling and bowing as was his 
custom. 


CHAPTER VIII 

D’ AGUILAR SPEAKS 

“Losses?” said d^Aguilar. “Do I hear the wealthy 
John Castell, who holds half the trade with Spain in the 
hollow of his hand, talk of losses?” 

“Yes, Sehor, you do. Things have gone ill with this 
ship of mine that has barely lived through the spring gales. 
But be seated.” 

“Indeed, is that so?” said d’Aguilar as he took a chair. 
“ What a lying jade is rumor ! For I was told that they had 
gone very well. Doubtless, however, what is loss to you 
would be priceless gain to one like me.” 

Castell made no answer, but waited, feeling that his 
visitor had not come to speak with him of his trading 
ventures. 

“Sehor Castell,” said d’Aguilar, with a note of nervous- 
ness in his voice, “I am here to ask you for something.” 

“If it be a loan, Sehor, I fear that the time is not oppor- 
tune.” And he nodded towards the sheet of figures. 

“It is not a loan; it is a gift.” 

“Anything in my poor house is yours,” answered Castell 
courteously, and in Oriental form. 

“I rejoice to hear it, Sehor, for I seek something from 
your house.” 


94 


D’AGUILAR SPEAKS 


95 

Castell looked a question at him with his quick black 
eyes. 

“I seek your daughter, the Sehora Margaret, in mar- 
riage.” 

Castell stared at him, then a single word broke from 
his lips. 

‘‘Impossible.” 

“Why impossible?” asked d’ Aguilar slowly, yet as one 
who expected some such answer. “In age we are not 
unsuited, nor perhaps in fortune, while of rank I have 
enough, more than you guess perhaps. I vaunt not my- 
self, yet women have thought me not uncomely. I should 
be a good friend to the house whence I took a wife, where 
perchance a day may come when friends will be needed, 
and lastly, I desire her not for what she may bring with 
her, though wealth is always welcome, but — I pray you 
to believe it — because I love her.” 

“I have heard that the Sehor d’Aguilar loves many 
women, yonder in Granada.” 

“As I have heard that the Margaret had a prosperous 
voyage, Senor Castell. Rumor, as I said but now, is a 
lying jade. Yet I will not copy her. I have been no 
saint. Now I would become one, for Margaret’s sake. 
I will be true to your daughter, Sehor. What say you 
now?” 

Castell only shook his head. 

“Listen,” went on d’ Aguilar. “I am more than I 
seem to be; she who weds me will not lack for rank and 
titles.” 

“Yes, you are the Marquis de Morelia, the reputed 
son of Prince Carlos of Viana by a Moorish mother, and 
therefore nephew to his Majesty of Spain.” 

D ’Aguilar looked at him, then bowed and said: 


96 


MARGARET 


“Your information is good — as good as mine, almost. 
Doubtless you do not like that bar in the blood. Well, if 
it were not there, I should be where Ferdinand is, should 
I not ? So I do not like it either, though it is good blood 
and ancient — that of those high-bred Moors. Now, may 
not the nephew of a king and the son of a princess of 
Granada be fit to mate with the daughter of — a Jew, yes, 
a Marano, and of a Christian English lady, of good family, 
but no more?” 

Castell lifted his hand as though to speak; but d’Aguilar 
went on: 

“ Deny it not, friend; it is not worth while here in private. 
Was there not a certain Isaac of Toledo who, hard on 
fifty years ago, left Spain, for his own reasons, with a little 
son, and in London became known as Joseph Castell, 
having, with his son, been baptized into the Holy Church ? 
Ah! you see you are not the only one who studies genealo- 
gies.” 

“Well, Senor, if so, what of it?” 

“What of it? Nothing at all, friend Castell. It is an 
old story, is it not, and, as that Isaac is long dead and his 
son has been a good Christian for nearly fifty years and 
had a Christian wife and child, who will trouble himself 
about such a matter? If he were openly a Hebrew now, 
or worse still, if pretending to be a Christian, he in secret 
practised the rites of the accursed Jews, why then ” 

“Then what?” 

“Then of course he would be expelled this land, where 
no Jew may live, his wealth would be forfeit to its king, 
whose ward his daughter would become, to be given in 
marriage where he willed, while he himself, being Spanish 
born, might perhaps be handed over to the power of 
Spain, there to make answer to these charges. But we 


D’AGUILAR SPEAKS 


97 

wander to strange matters. Is that alliance still impos- 
sible, Sehor?’’ 

Castell looked him straight in the eyes and answered: 

“Yes.’^ 

There was something so bold and direct in his utter- 
ance of the word that for a moment d’ Aguilar seemed to 
be taken aback. He had not expected this sharp 
denial. 

“It would be courteous to give a reason,’’ he said 
presently. 

“The reason is simple. Marquis. My daughter is 
already betrothed, and will ere long be wedded.” 

D ’Aguilar did not seem surprised at this intelligence. 

“To that brawler, your kinsman Peter Brome, I sup- 
pose?” he said interrogatively. “I guessed as much, 
and by the saints I am sorry for her, for he must be a dull 

lover to one so fair and bright; while as a husband ” 

And he shrugged his shoulders. “Friend Castell, for her 
sake you will break off this match.” 

“And if I will not. Marquis?” 

“Then I must break it off for you in the interest of all 
of us, including, of course, myself, who love her, and wish 
to lift her to a great place, and of yourself, whom I desire 
should pass your old age in peace and wealth, and not be 
hunted to your death like a mad dog.” 

“How will you break it. Marquis? by ” 

“Oh no, Senor!” answered d’Aguilar, “not by other 
men’s swords — if that is what you mean. The worthy 
Peter is safe from them so far as I am concerned, though 
if he should come face to face with mine, then let the best 
man win. Have no fear, friend, I do not practise murder, 
who value my own soul too much to soak it in blood, nor 
would I marry a woman except of her own free will. Still, 


98 


MARGARET 


Peter may die, and the fair Margaret may still place 
her hand in mine and say, ‘I choose you as my hus- 
band.”^ 

“All these things, and many others, may happen. Mar- 
quis; but I do not think it likely that they will happen, 
and for my part, whilst thanking you for it, I decline your 
honorable offer, believing that my daughter will be more 
happy in her present, humble state with the man she has 
chosen. Have I your leave to return to my accounts?” 
And he rose. 

“Yes, Senor,’’ answered d’Aguilar, rising also; “but 
add an item to those losses of which you spoke, that of the 
friendship of Carlos, Marquis de Morelia, and on the 
other side enter again that of his hate. Man!” he added, 
and his dark, handsome face turned very evil as he spoke, 
“are you mad? Think of the little tabernacle behind the 
altar in your chapel, and what it contains.” 

Castell stared at him, then said: 

“Come, let us see. Nay, fear no trick; like you I re- 
member my soul, and do not stain my hands with blood. 
Follow me, so you will be safe.” 

Curiosity, or some other reason, prompted d’Aguilar 
to obey, and presently they stood behind the altar. 

“Now,” said Castell, as he drew the tapestry and 
opened the secret door, “look!” 

D’Aguilar peered into the place; but where should have 
been the table, the ark, the candlesticks, and the roll of 
the law of which Betty had told him, were only old 
dusty boxes filled with parchments and some broken 
furniture. 

“What do you see?” asked Castell. 

“I see, friend, that you are even a cleverer Jew than I 
thought. But this is a matter that you must explain to 


D’AGUILAR SPEAKS 


99 


others in due season. Believe me, I am no inquisitor.’’ 
Then without more words he turned and left him. 

When Castell, having shut the secret door and drawn 
the tapestry, hurried from the chapel, it was to find that 
the marquis had departed. 

He went back to his office much disturbed, and sat him- 
self down there to think. Truly Fate, that had so long 
been his friend, was turning its face against him. Things 
could not have gone worse. D ’Aguilar had discovered 
the secret of his faith through his spies, and, having by 
some accursed mischance fallen in love with his daughter’s 
beauty, was become his bitter enemy because he must 
refuse her to him. Why must he refuse her? The man 
was of great position and noble blood; she would become 
the wife of one of the first grandees of Spain, one who 
stood nearest to the throne. Perhaps — such a thing was 
possible — she might live herself to be a queen, or the 
mother of kings. Moreover, that marriage meant safety 
for himself; it meant a quiet age, a peaceful death in his 
own bed — for, were he fifty times a Marano, who would 
touch the father-in-law of the Marquis de Morelia ? Why ? 
Just because he had promised her in marriage to Peter 
Brome, and through all his life as a merchant he had never 
yet broken with a bargain because it went against himself. 
That was the answer. Yet almost he could find it in his 
heart to wish that he had never made that bargain; that 
he had kept Peter, who had waited so long, waiting for 
another month. Well, it was too late now. He had 
passed his word, and he would keep it, whatever the cost 
might be. 

Rising, he called one of the servants, and bade her sum- 
mon Margaret. Presently she returned, saying that her 


lOO 


MARGARET 


mistress had gone out walking with Betty, adding also 
that his horse was at the door for him to ride to the river, 
where he was to pass the night on board his ship. 

Taking paper, he bethought him that he would write 
to Margaret, warning her against the Spaniard. Then, 
remembering that she had nothing to fear from him, at 
any rate at present, and that it was not wise to set down 
such matters, he told her only to take good care of herself, 
and that he would be back in the morning. 

That evening, when Margaret was in her own little 
sitting- chamber, which adjoined the great hall, the door 
opened, and she looked up from the work upon which she 
was engaged, to see d’Aguilar standing before her. 

“Senor!’^ she said amazed, “how came you here?” 

“Senora,” he answered, closing the door and bowing, 
“my feet brought me. Had I any other means of coming 
I think that I should not often be absent from your side.” 

“ Spare me your fine words, I pray you, Senor,” answered 
Margaret, frowning. “It is not fitting that I should re- 
ceive you thus alone at night, my father being absent from 
the house.” And she made as though she would pass him 
and reach the door. 

D’Aguilar, who stood in front of it, did not move, so 
perforce she stopped half way. 

“I found that he was absent,” he said courteously, 
“and that is why I venture to address you upon a matter 
of some importance. Give me a few minutes of your 
time, therefore, I beseech you.” 

Now, at once the thought entered Margaret’s mind that 
he had some news of Peter to communicate to her — bad 
news perhaps. 

“Be seated, and speak on, Senor,” she said, sinking 


D’AGUILAR SPEAKS 


loi 


into a chair, while he too sat down, but still in front of 
the door. 

“Senora,” he said, “my business in this country is 
finished, and in a few days I sail hence for Spain.” And 
he hesitated a moment. 

“I trust that your voyage will be pleasant,” said Mar- 
garet,^ not knowing what else to answer. 

“I trust so also, Senora, since I have come to ask you 
if you will share it. Listen, before you refuse. To-day 
I saw your father, and begged your hand of him. He 
would give me no answer, neither yea nor nay, saying 
that you were your own mistress, and that I must seek it 
from your lips.” 

“My father said that?” gasped Margaret astonished, 
then bethought her that he might have had reasons for 
speaking so, and went on rapidly, “Well, it is short 
and simple. I thank you, Senor; but I stay in Eng- 
land.” 

“Even that I would be willing to do for your sake, 
Senora, though, in truth, I find it a cold and barbarous 
country.” 

“If so, Senor d’ Aguilar, I think that I should go to 
Spain. I pray you let me pass.” 

“Not until you have heard me out, Senora, when I trust 
that your words will be more gentle. See now, I am a 
great man in my own country. Although it suits me to 
pass here incognito as plain Senor d’Aguilar, I am the 
Marquis of Morelia, the nephew of Ferdinand the King, 
with some wealth and station, official and private. If you 
disbelieve me, I can prove it to you.” 

“I do not disbelieve,” answered Margaret indifferently, 
“it may well be so; but what is that to me?” 

“Then is it not something, lady, that I, who have blood- 


102 


MARGARET 


royal in my veins, should seek the daughter of a merchant 
to be my wife? 

“Nothing at all — to me, who am satisfied with my 
humble lot.’’ 

“Is it nothing to you that I should love as I do, with all 
my heart and soul ? Marry me, and I tell you that I will 
lift you high, yes, perhaps even to the throne.” 

She thought a moment, then asked: 

“The bribe is great, but how would you do that? 
Many a maid has been deceived with false jewels, Senor.” 

“How has it been done before? Not every one loves 
Ferdinand. I have many friends who remember that 
my father was poisoned by his father and Ferdinand’s, 
he being the elder son. Also, my mother was a princess 
of the Moors, and if I, who dwell among them as the envoy 
of their Majesties, threw in my sword with theirs — or 
there are other ways. But I am speaking things that have 
never passed my lips before, which, were they known, 
would cost me my head — let it serve to show how much 
I trust you.” 

“I thank you, Senor, for your trust; but this crown 
seems to me set upon a peak that it is dangerous to climb, 
and I had sooner sit in safety on the plain.” 

“You reject the pomp,” went on d’Aguilar in his pas- 
sionate, pleading voice, “then will not the love move you? 
Oh! you shall be worshipped as never woman was. I 
swear to you that in your eyes there is a light which has 
set my heart on fire, so that it burns night and day, and 
will not be quenched. Your voice is my sweetest music, 
your hair is a cord that binds me to you faster than the 
prisoner’s chain, and, when you pass, for me Venus walks 
the earth. More, your mind is pure and noble as your 
beauty, and by the aid of it I shall be lifted up through 


D’AGUILAR SPEAKS 


103 


the high places of the earth to some white throne in heaven. 
I love you, my lady, my fair Margaret; because of you, 
all other women are become coarse and hateful in my 
sight. See how much I love you, that I, one of the first 
grandees of Spain, do this for your sweet sake,” and sud- 
denly he cast himself upon his knees before her, and lifting 
the hem of her dress pressed it to his lips. 

Margaret looked down at him, and the anger that was 
rising in her breast melted, while with it went her fear. 
This man was much in earnest; she could not doubt it. 
The hand that held her robe trembled like shaken water, 
his face was ashen, and in his dark eyes swam tears. 
What cause had she to be afraid of one who was so much 
her slave? 

“Senor,” she said very gently, “rise, I pray you. Do 
not waste all this love upon one who chances to have 
caught your fancy, but who is quite unworthy of it, and 
far beneath you; one, moreover, by whom it may not be 
returned. Senor, I am already affianced. Therefore, 
put me out of your mind and find some other love.” 

He rose and stood in front of her. 

“Affianced,” he said, “I knew it. Nay, I will say no 
ill of the man; to revile one more fortunate is poor argu- 
ment. But what is it to me if you are affianced? What 
to me if you were wed ? I should seek you all the same, 
who have no choice. Beneath me ? You are as far above 
me as a star, and it would seem as hard to reach. Seek 
some other love? I tell you, lady, that I have sought 
many, for not all are so hard to win, and I hate them every 
one. You I desire alone, and shall desire till I be dead, 
aye, and you I will win or die. No, I will not die till you 
are my own. Have no fear, I will not kill your lover, 
save perhaps in fair fight; I will not force you to give your- 


104 


MARGARET 


self to me, should I find the chance, but with your own 
lips I will yet listen to you asking me to be your husband. 
I swear it by Him Who died for us. I swear that, laying 
aside all other ends, to that sole purpose I will devote my 
days. Yes, and should you chance to pass from earth 
before me, then I will follow you to the very gates of death 
and clasp you there.’’ 

Now again Margaret’s fear returned to her. This 
man’s passion was terrible, yet there was a grandeur in 
it; Peter had never spoken to her in so high a fashion. 

“Senor,” she said almost pleadingly, “corpses are poor 
brides; have done with such sick fancies, which surely 
must be born of your Eastern blood.” 

“It is your blood also, who are half a Jew, and, there- 
fore, at least you should understand them.” 

“Mayhap I do understand, mayhap I think them great 
in their own fashion, yes, noble even, and admire, if it can 
be noble to seek to win away another man’s betrothed. 
But, Senor, I am that man’s betrothed, and all of me, my 
body and my soul, is his, nor would I go back upon my 
word, and so break his heart, to win the empire of the earth. 
Senor, once more I implore you to leave this poor maid to 
the humble life that she has chosen, and to forget her.” 

“Lady,” answered d’ Aguilar, “your words are wise and 
gentle, and I thank you for them. But I cannot forget 
you, and that oath I swore just now I swear again, thus.” 
And before she could prevent him, or even guess what he 
was about to do, he lifted the gold crucifix that hung by 
a chain about her neck, kissed it, and let it fall gently 
back upon her breast, saying, “See, lady, I might have 
kissed your lips before you could have stayed me, but that 
I will never do until you give me leave, so in place of them 
I kiss the cross, which till then we both must carry. Lady, 


D’AGUILAR SPEAKS 


105 


my lady Margaret, within a day or two I sail for Spain, but 
your image shall sail with me, and I believe that ere long 
our paths must cross again. How can it be otherwise 
since the threads of your life and mine were intertwined 
on that night outside the Palace of Westminster, — inter- 
twined never to be separated till one of us has ceased to be, 
and then only for a little while. Lady, for the present, 
farewell.” 

Then swiftly and silently as he had come, dhAguilar 
went. 

It was Betty who let him out at the side door, as she 
had let him in. More, glancing round to see that she was 
not observed — for it chanced now that Peter was away 
with some of the best men, and the master was out with 
others, no one was on watch this night — leaving the door 
ajar that she might re-enter, she followed him a little way, 
till they came to an old arch, which in some bygone time 
had led to a house now pulled down. Into this dark 
place Betty slipped, touching d’Aguilar on the arm as she 
did so. For a moment he hesitated, then, muttering 
some Spanish oath between his teeth, followed her. 

“Well, most fair Betty,” he said, “what word have 
you for me now?” 

“The question is, Senor Carlos,” answered Betty with 
scarcely suppressed indignation, “what word you have 
for me, who dared so much for you to-night? That you 
have plenty for my cousin, I know, since standing in the 
cold garden I could hear you talk, talk, talk, through the 
shutters, as though for your very life.” 

“I pray that those shutters had no hole in them,” re- 
flected d’ Aguilar to himself. “ No, there was a curtain also ; 
she can have seen nothing.” But aloud he answered: 
“Mistress Betty, you should not stand about in this 


io6 


MARGARET 


bitter wind; you might fall ill, and then what should I 
suffer?” 

“I don’t know, nothing perhaps; that would be left to 
me. What I want to understand is, why you plan to 
come to see me, and then spend an hour with Margaret?” 

“To avert suspicion, most dear Betty. Also I had to 
talk to her of this Peter, in whom she seems so greatly 
interested. You are very shrewd, Betty — tell me, is that 
to be a match?” 

“I think so, I have been told nothing but I have noticed 
many things, and almost every day she is writing to him, 
though why she should care for that owl of a man I cannot 
guess.” 

“Doubtless because she appreciates solid worth, Betty, 
as I do in you. Who can account for the impulses of the 
heart, which come, say some of the learned, from Heaven, 
and others, from hell ? At least it is no affair of ours, so 
let us wish them happiness, and, after they are married, 
a large and healthy family. Meanwhile, dear Betty, are 
you making ready for your voyage to Spain ?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Betty gloomily. “I am not 
sure that I trust you and your fine words. If you want to 
marry me, as you swear, and be sure I look for nothing 
less, why cannot it be before we start, and how am I to 
know that you will do so when we get there?” 

“You ask many questions, Betty, all of which I have 
answered before. I have told you that I cannot marry 
you here because of that dispensation which is necessary 
ou account of the difference in our ranks. Here, where 
your position is known, it is not to be had; there, where 
you will pass as a great English lady — as of course you 
are by birth — I can obtain it in an hour. But if you 
have any doubts, although it cuts me to the heart to say 


D’AGUILAR SPEAKS 


107 


it, it would be best that we should part at once. I will take 
no wife who does not trust me fully and alone. Say then, 
cruel Betty, do you wish to leave me ?” 

“You know I don’t; you know it would kill me,” she 
answered in a voice that was thick with passion; “you 
know I worship the ground you walk on, and hate every 
woman that you go near, yes, even my cousin, who has 
been so good to me, and whom I love. I will take the risk 
and come with you, believing you to be an honest gentle- 
man, who would not deceive a girl who trusts him, and if 
you do, may God deal with you as I shall, for I am no toy 
to be broken and thrown away, as you would find out. 
Yes, I will take the risk because you have made me love 
you so that I cannot live without you.” 

“Betty, your words fill me with rapture, showing me 
that I have not misread your noble mind; but speak a 
little lower — there are echoes in this hole. Now for the 
plans, for time is short, and you may be missed. When 
I am about to sail I will invite Mistress Margaret and your- 
self to come aboard my ship.” 

“Why not invite me without my cousin Margaret?” 
asked Betty. 

“Because it would excite suspicion which we must avoid 
— do not interrupt me. I will invite you both, or get you 
there upon some other pretext, and then I will arrange 
that she shall be brought ashore again, and you taken on. 
Leave it all to me, only swear that you will obey any in- 
structions I may send you, for if you do not, I tell you that 
we have enemies in high places who may part us for ever. 
Betty, I will be frank, there is a great lady who is jealous, 
and watches you very closely. Do you swear?” 

“Yes, yes, I swear. But about the great lady?” 

“Not a word about her — on your life — and mine. 


io8 


MARGARET 


You shall hear from me shortly. And now, dearest — 
good night.^’ 

“ Good night,” said Betty, but still she did not stir. 

Then, understanding that she expected something more, 
d’Aguilar nerved himself to the task, and touched her hair 
with his lips. 

Next moment he regretted it, for even that tempered 
salute fanned her passion into flame. 

Throwing her arms about his neck Betty drew his face 
to hers and kissed him many times, till at length he broke, 
half choking, from her embrace, and escaped into the 
street. 

“Mother of Heaven!” he muttered to himself, “the 
woman is a volcano in eruption. I shall feel her kisses 
for a week,” and he rubbed his face ruefully with his hand. 
“I wish I had made some other plan; but it is too late to 
change it now — she would betray everything. Well, I 
will be rid of her somehow, if I have to drown her. A 
hard fate to love the mistress and be loved of the maid ! ” 


CHAPTER IX 

THE SNARE 

On the following morning, when Castell returned, Mar- 
garet told him of the visit of d’Aguilar, and of all that had 
passed between them, told him also that he was acquainted 
with their secret, since he had spoken of her as half a 

Jew. 

“I know it, I know it,’^ answered her father, who was 
much disturbed and very angry, “for yesterday he threat- 
ened me also. But let that go, I can take my chance; now 
I would learn who brought this man into my house when 
I was absent, and without my leave.’’ 

“I fear that it was Betty,” said Margaret, “who swears 
that she thought she did no wrong.” 

“Send for her,” said Castell. Presently Betty came, 
and, being questioned, told a long story. 

She said she was standing by the side door, taking the 
air, when Senor d ’Aguilar appeared, and, having greeted 
her, without more words walked into the house, saying 
that he had an appointment with the master ” 

“With me?” broke in Castell. “I was absent.” 

“I did not know that you were absent, for I was out 
when you rode away in the afternoon, and no one had 
spoken of it to me, so, thinking that he was your friend, 
109 


no 


MARGARET 


I let him in, and let him out again afterwards. That is 
all I have to say.” 

“Then I have to say that you are a hussy and a liar, 
and that, in one way or the other, this Spaniard has bribed 
you,” answered Castell fiercely. “Now, girl, although 
you are my wife’s cousin, and therefore my daughter’s 
kin, I am minded to turn you out on to the street to 
starve.” 

At this Betty first grew angry, then began to weep; 
while Margaret pleaded with her father, saying that it 
would mean the girl’s ruin, and that he must not take 
such a sin upon him. So the end of it was, that, being a 
kind-hearted man, remembering also that Betty Dene 
was of his wife’s blood, and that she had favored her as 
his daughter did, he relented, taking measures to see that 
she went abroad no more save in the company of Margaret, 
and that the doors were opened only by men-servants. 

So this matter ended. 

That day Margaret wrote to Peter, telling him of all 
that had happened, and how the Spaniard had asked her 
in marriage, though the words that he used she did not 
tell. At the end of her letter, also, she bade him have no 
fear of the Senor d’Aguilar, or of any other man, as he 
knew where her heart was. 

When Peter received this writing he was much vexed 
to learn that both Master Castell and Margaret had in- 
curred the enmity of d’Aguilar, for so he guessed it must 
be, also that Margaret should have been troubled with 
his love-making; but for the rest he thought little of the 
matter, who trusted her as he trusted heaven. Still it 
made him anxious to return to London as soon as might 
be, even though he must take the risk of the Spaniards’ 
daggers. Within three days, however, he received other 


THE SNARE 


III 


letters both from Castell and from Margaret, which set 
his fears at rest. 

These told him that d’Aguilar had sailed for Spain; 
indeed, Castell said that he had seen him standing on the 
poop of the Ambassador de Ayala’s vessel as it dropped 
down the Thames towards the sea. Moreover, Margaret 
had a note of farewell from his hand, which ran : 

“Adieu, sweet lady, till that predestined hour when we 
meet again. I go, as I must, but as I told you, your 
image goes with me. 

“Your worshipper till death, 

“Morella.” 

“ He may take her image so long as I keep herself, and 
if he comes back with his worship, I promise him that 
death and he shall not be far apart,” was Peter’s grim 
comment as he laid the paper down. Then he went on 
with his letters, which told that now, when the Spaniards 
had gone, and there was nothing more to fear, he was 
awaited in London. Indeed, Castell fixed a day when 
he should arrive — May 31st — that was within a week, 
adding that on its morrow — namely, June ist, for Mar- 
garet would not be wed in May, the Virgin Mary’s month, 
since she held it to be unlucky — their marriage might 
take place as quietly as they would. 

Margaret wrote the same news, and in such sweet words 
that he kissed her letter, then hastened to answer it, 
shortly, after his custom, for Peter was no great scribe, 
saying, that if the saints willed it he would be with them 
by nightfall on the last day of May, and that in all England 
there was no happier man than he. 

Now, all that week Margaret was very busy preparing 


II2 


MARGARET 


her marriage robe, and other garments also, for it was 
settled that on the next day they should ride together 
down to Dedham, in Essex, whither her father would 
follow them shortly. The old hall was not ready, indeed, 
nor would it be for some time; but Peter had furnished 
certain rooms in it which might serve them for the summer 
season, and by winter time the house would be finished 
and open. 

Castell was busy also, for now, having worked very 
hard at the task, his ship the Margaret was almost refitted 
and laden, so that he hoped to get her to sea on this same 
May 31st, and thus be clear of the last of his business, 
except the handing over of his warehouses and stock to 
those who had bought them. These great affairs kept 
him much at Gravesend, where the ship lay, but, as he 
had no dread of further trouble now that d’Aguilar and 
the other Spaniards, among them that band of de Ayala’s 
servants who had vowed to take Peter’s life, were gone, 
this did not disturb him. 

Oh! happy, happy was Margaret during those sweet 
spring days, when her heart was bright and clear as the 
skies from which all winter storms had passed. So happy 
was she indeed, and so full of a hundred joyful cares, that 
she found no time to take note of her cousin Betty, who 
worked with her at her wedding broideries, and helped 
to make preparations for the journey which should follow 
after. Had she done so, she might have seen that Betty 
was anxious and distressed, like one who waited for some 
tidings that did not come, and from hour to hour fought 
against anguish and despair. But she took no note, 
whose heart was too full of her own matters, and who 
did but count the hours till she should see her lover back 
and pass to his arms, a wife. 


THE SNARE 


113 

Thus the time went on until the appointed day of Peter’s 
return, the morrow of her marriage, for which all things 
were now prepared, down to Peter’s wedding garments, 
that were finer than any she had yet seen him wear, and 
the decking of the neighboring church with flowers. In the 
early morning her father rode away to Gravesend with the 
most of his men-servants, for the ship Margaret was to sail 
at the following dawn, and there was still much to be done 
before she could Hft anchor. Still, he had promised to 
be back by nightfall in time to meet Peter, who, leaving 
Dedham that morning, could not reach them before then. 

At length it was past four of the afternoon, and, every- 
thing being finished, Margaret went to her room to dress 
herself anew, that she might look fine in Peter’s eyes when 
he should come. Betty she did not take with her, for 
there were things to which she must attend; moreover, 
her heart was so full that she wished to be alone a while. 

Betty’s heart was full also, but not with joy. She had 
been deceived. The fine Spanish Don, who had made 
her love him so desperately, had sailed away and left her 
without a word. She could not doubt it, he had been 
seen standing on the ship — and not one word. It was 
cruel, cruel, and now she must help another woman to be 
made a happy wife, she who was beggared of hope and 
love. Moodily, full of bitterness, she went about her tasks, 
biting her lips and wiping her fine eyes with the sleeve of 
her robe, when suddenly the door opened, and a servant, 
not one of their own, but a stranger man who had been 
brought in to help at the morrow’s feast, called out that a 
sailor wished to speak with her. 

‘‘Then let him enter here; I have no time to go out to 
listen to his talk,” snapped Betty. 

Presently the sailor was shown in, the man who brought 
8 


MARGARET 


114 

him leaving the room at once. He was a dark fellow with 
sly, black eyes, who, had he not spoken English so well, 
might have been taken for a Spaniard. 

“Who are you, and what is your business?’^ asked 
Betty sharply. 

“I am the carpenter of the ship Margaret,''^ he answered, 
“ and I am here to say that our master Castell has met with 
an accident there, and desires that the Lady Margaret, 
his daughter, should come to him at once.” 

“What accident?” asked Betty. 

“In seeing to the stowage of cargo he slipped and fell 
down the hold, hurting his back and breaking his right 
arm, and that is why he cannot write. He is in great pain ; 
but the physician whom we summoned bade me tell Mis- 
tress Margaret that at present he has no fear of his life. 
Are you Mistress Margaret?” 

“No,” answered Betty; “but I will go to her at once; 
do you bide here.” 

“Then are you her cousin. Mistress Betty Dene, for 
if so I have something for you?” 

“lam. What is it?” 

“This,” said the man, drawing out a letter which he 
handed to her. 

“Who gave you this?” asked Betty suspiciously. 

“I do not know his name, but he was a noble-looking 
Spanish Don, and a liberal one too. He had heard of the 
accident on the Margaret, and, knowing my errand, asked 
me if I would deliver this letter to you, for the fee of a gold 
ducat, and promise to say nothing of it to any one else.” 

“Some rude gallant, doubtless,” said Betty, tossing her 
head; “they are ever writing to me. Bide here; I go to 
Mistress Margaret. 

Once she was outside the door Betty broke the seal of 


THE SNARE 


115 

the letter eagerly enough, for she had been taught with 
Margaret, and could read well. It ran: 

‘‘Beloved, 

“You thought me faithless and gone, but it is not so. 
I was silent only because I knew you could not come alone 
who are watched; but now the god of love gives us our 
chance. Doubtless your cousin will bring you with her 
to visit her father, who lies on his ship sadly hurt. While 
she is with him I have made a plan to rescue you, and then 
we can be wed and sail at once — yes, to-night, or to-mor- 
row, for with much trouble, knowing that you wished it, 
I have even succeeded in bringing that about, and a 
priest will be waiting to marry us. Be silent, and show 
no doubt or fear, whatever happens, lest we should be 
parted for always. Be sure then that your cousin comes 
that you may accompany her. Remember that your true 
love waits you. 

“C. d’A.’’ 

When Betty had mastered the contents of this, amorous 
effusion she went pale with joy, and turned so faint that 
she was like to fall. Then a doubt struck her that it 
might be some trick. No, she knew the writing — it was 
d’Aguilar’s, and he was true to her, and would marry her 
as he had promised, and take her to be a great lady in 
Spain. If she hesitated now she might lose him for ever 
— him whom she would follow to the end of the world. 
In an instant her mind was made up, for Betty had plenty 
of courage. She would go, even though she must desert 
the cousin whom she loved. 

Thrusting the letter into her bosom she ran to Mar- 
garet’s room, and, bursting into it, told her of the man and 


ii6 


MARGARET 


his sad message. But of that letter she said nothing. 
Margaret turned white at the news, then, recovering her- 
self, said: 

“I will come and speak with him at once.’’ And 
together they went down the stairs. 

To Margaret the sailor repeated his story, nor could 
all her questions shake it. He told her how the mischance 
had happened, for he had seen it, so he said, and where 
her father’s hurts were, adding, that although the physician 
held that as yet he was in no danger of his life. Master 
Castell thought otherwise, and did nothing but cry that 
his daughter should be brought to him at once. 

Still Margaret doubted and hesitated, for she feared she 
knew not what. 

“Peter should be here within two hours at most,” she 
said to Betty. “Would it not be best to wait for him ?” 

“Oh! Margaret, and what if your father should die in 
the meanwhile? Perhaps he knows better how deep his 
hurts are than does this leech. If so, you would have a 
sore heart for all your life. Surely you had better go, or 
at least I will.” 

Still Margaret wavered, till the sailor said: 

“Lady, if it is your will to come, I can guide you to 
where a boat waits to take you across the river. If not, I 
must be gone, for the ship sails with the moonrise, and 
they only wait your coming to carry the master, your 
father, to the warehouse on shore, thinking it best that you 
should be present. If you do not come, this will be done 
as gently as possible, and there you must seek him to- 
morrow, alive or dead.” And the man took up his cap 
as though to leave. 

“I will come with you,” said Margaret. “Betty, you 
are right; order the two horses to be saddled, mine and the 


THE SNARE 


117 

groom’s, with a pillion on which you can ride, for I will 
not send you or go alone. I understand that this sailor 
has his own horse.” 

The man nodded, and accompanied Betty to the stable. 
Then Margaret took pen and wrote hastily to Peter, telling 
him of their evil chance, and bidding him follow her at 
once to the ship, or, if it had sailed, to the warehouse. “ I 
am loath to go,” she added, “ alone with a girl and a strange 
man, yet I must, since my heart is tom with fear for my 
beloved father. Sweetheart, follow me quickly.” 

This done, she gave the letter to that servant who had 
shown in the sailor, bidding him hand it, without fail, to 
Master Peter Brome when he came, which the man 
promised to do. 

Then she fetched plain, dark cloaks for herself and 
Betty, with hoods to them, that their faces might not be 
seen, and presently they were mounted. 

“Stay!” said Margaret to the sailor as they were about 
to start. “ How comes it that my father did not send one 
of his own men instead of you, and why did none write 
to me?” 

The man looked surprised ; he was a very good actor. 

“His people were tending him,” he said, “and he bade 
me to go because I knew the way, and had a good, hired 
horse ashore which I have used when riding with messages 
to London about new timbers and other matters. As for 
writing, the physician began a letter, but he was .so slow 
and long that Master Castell ordered me to be off without 
it. It seems,” the man added, addressing Betty with some 
irritation, “ that Mistress Margaret misdoubts me. If so, 
let her find some other guide, or bide at home. It is 
naught to me, who have only done as I was bidden.” 

Thus did this cunning fellow persuade Margaret that 


ii8 


MARGARET 


her fears were nothing, though, remembering the letter 
from d’Aguilar, Betty was somewhat troubled. The 
thing had a strange look, but, poor, vain fool, she thought 
to herself that, even if there were some trick, it was cer- 
tainly arranged only that she might seem to be taken, who 
could not come alone. In truth she was blind and mad, 
and cared not what she did, though, let this be said for her, 
she never dreamed that any harm was meant towards her 
cousin Margaret, or that a lie had been told as to Master 
Castell and his hurts. 

Soon they were out of London, and riding swiftly by the 
road that followed the north bank of the river, for their 
guide did not take them over the bridge, as he said the 
ship was lying in midstream and that the boat would be 
waiting on the Tilbury shore. But there was more than 
twenty miles to travel, and, push on as they would, night 
had fallen ere ever they came there. At length, when they 
were weaiy of the dark and the rough road, the sailor 
pulled up at a spot upon the river’s brink — where there 
was a little wharf, but no houses that they could see — 
saying that this was the place. Dismounting, he gave his 
horse to the groom to hold, and, going to the wharf, asked 
in a loud voice if the boat from the Margaret was there, 
to which a voice answered, “Aye.” Then he talked for a 
minute to those in the boat, though what he said they 
could not hear, and ran back again, bidding them dis- 
mount, and adding that they had done well to come, as 
Master Castell was much worse, and did nothing but cry 
for his daughter. 

The groom he told to lead the horses a little way along 
the bank till he found an inn that stood there, where he 
must wait their return or further orders, and to Betty he 
suggested that she should go with him, as there was but 


THE SNARE 


119 

little place left in the boat. This she was willing enough 
to do, thinking it all part of the plan for her carrying off ; 
but Margaret would have none of it, saying that unless 
her cousin came with her she would not stir another step. 
So grumbhng a little the sailor gave way, and hurried them 
both to some wooden steps and down them into a boat, 
of which they could but dimly see the outline. 

So soon as ever they were seated side by side in the 
stem it was pushed off, and they rowed away rapidly into 
the darkness, while one of the sailors lit a lantern which 
he fastened to the bow, and far away out on the river, as 
though in answer to the signal, another star of light ap- 
peared, towards which they headed. Now Margaret, 
speaking through the gloom, asked the rowers of her 
father’s state; but the sailor, their guide, prayed her not 
to trouble them, as the tide ran very swiftly and they must 
give all their mind to their business lest they should over- 
set. So she was silent, and, racked with doubts and fears, 
watched that star of light growing ever nearer, till at length 
it hung above them. 

“Is that the ship Margaret?^' cried their guide, and 
again a voice answered “Aye.” 

“Then tell Master Castell that his daughter has come 
at last,” he shouted again, and in another minute a rope 
had been thrown to them, and they were fast alongside a 
ladder on to which Betty, who was nearest to it, was pushed 
the first, except for their guide, who had run up the wooden 
steps very swiftly. 

Betty, who was active and strong, followed him, Mar- 
garet coming next. As she reached the deck Betty thought 
she heard a voice say in Spanish, of which she understood 
something, “Fool! Why have you brought both?” but 
the answer she could not catch. Then she turned and 


120 


MARGARET 


gave her hand to Margaret, and together they walked for- 
ward to the foot of the mast. 

“Lead me to my father,” said Margaret. 

Whereon the guide answered : 

“ Yes, this way. Mistress, but come alone, for the sight 
of two of you at once may disturb him.” 

“Nay,” she answered, “my cousin comes with me.” 
And she took Betty^s hand and clung to it. 

Shrugging his shoulders the sailor led them forwards, 
and as they went she noted that men were hauling on a 
sail, while other men, who sang a strange, wild song, 
worked on what seemed to be a windlass. Now they 
reached a cabin, and entered it, the door being shut be- 
hind them. In the cabin a man sat at a table with a lamp 
hanging over his head. He rose and turned towards 
them, bowing, and Margaret saw that it was — 
d* Aguilar! 

Betty stood silent; she had expected to meet him, though 
not here and thus. Her foolish heart bounded so at the 
sight of him that she seemed to choke, and could only 
wonder dimly what mistake had been made, and how he 
would explain to Margaret and get her away, leaving 
herself and him together to be married. Indeed, she 
searched the cabin with her eyes to see where the priest 
was waiting, then noting a door beyond, thought that 
doubtless he must be hidden there. As for Margaret, she 
uttered a little stifled cry, then, being a brave woman, one 
of that high nature which grows strong in the face of trouble, 
straightened herself to her full height and said in a low, 
fierce voice; 

“What do you here? Where is my father?” 

“Senora,” he answered humbly, “I am on board my 
ship, the San Antonio, and as for your father, he is either 










IN ANOTHER MOMENT THAT STEEL WOULD HAVE PIERCED 

HIS HEART 


ppn 


i - !'■ • 'r' 




THE SNARE 


I2I 


aboard his ship, the Margaretj or more likely, by now, at 
his house in Holbom.” 

At these words Margaret reeled back till the wall of 
the cabin stayed her, and there she rested. 

“Spare me your reproaches,” went on d’Aguilar hur- 
riedly. “ I will tell you all the truth. First, be not anxious 
as to your father; no accident has happened to him; he 
is sound and well. Forgive me if you have suffered pain 
and doubt; but there was no other way. That tale was 

only one of love’s snares and tricks ” He paused, 

overcome, fascinated by Margaret’s face, which of a sud- 
en had grown awful, that of a goddess of vengeance, of a 
Medusa, which seemed to chill his blood to ice. 

“A snare! A trick!” she muttered hoarsely, while her 
eyes flamed on him like burning stars. “Thus then I 
pay you for your tricks.” And in an instant he became 
aware that she had snatched a dagger from her bosom and 
was springing on him. 

He could not move ; those fearful eyes held him fast. In 
another moment that steel would have pierced his heart. 
But Betty had seen also, and, casting her strong arms 
about Margaret, held her back, crying: 

“Listen, you do not understand. It is I he wants — 
not you; I whom he loves, and who love him, and am 
about to marry him. You he will send back home.” 

“Loose me,” said Margaret, in such a voice that Betty’s 
arms fell from her, and she stood there, the dagger still in 
her hand. “Now,” she said to d’Aguilar, “the truth, and 
be swift with it. What means this woman ? ” 

“She knows best,” answered d’Aguilar uneasily. “It 
has pleased her to wrap herself in this web of conceits.” 

“Which it has pleased you to spin, perchance. Speak, 
girl!” 


122 


MARGARET 


“He made love to me/’ gasped Betty; “and I love him. 
He promised to marry me. He sent me a letter but to- 
day — here it is,” and she drew it out. 

“Read,” said Margaret; and Betty read. 

“So you have betrayed me,” said Margaret, “you, my 
cousin whom I have sheltered and cherished.” 

“No,” cried Betty. “I never thought to betray you; 
sooner would I have died. I believed that your father 
was hurt, and that while you were visiting him that man 
would take me.” 

“What have you to say?” asked Margaret of d’Aguilar 
in the same dreadful voice. “You offered your accursed 
love to me — and to her, and you have snared us both. 
Man, what have you to say?” 

“Only this,” he answered, trying to look brave, “that 
woman is a fool, whose vanity I played on that I might 
make use of her to keep near to you.” 

“ Do you hear, Betty? — do you hear?” cried Margaret 
with a terrible little laugh; but Betty only groaned as 
though she were dying. 

“I love you, and you only,” went on d’Aguilar. “As 
for your cousin, I will send her ashore. I have committed 
this sin because I could not help myself. The thought 
that you were to be married to another man to-morrow 
drove me mad, and I dared all to take you from his arms, 
even though you should never come to mine. Did I not 
swear to you,” he said with an attempt at his old gallantry, 
“that your image should accompany me to Spain, whither 
we are sailing now?” And as he spoke the words the 
ship lurched a little in the wind. 

Margaret made no answer, only toyed with the dagger 
blade, and watched him with eyes that glittered more coldly 
than its steel. 


THE SNARE 


123 


“Kill me, if you will, and have done,^^ he went on in a 
voice that was desperate with love and shame. “ So shall 
I be rid of all this torment.” 

Then Margaret seemed to awake, for she spoke to him 
in a new voice — a measured, frozen voice. 

“No,” she answered, “I will not stain my hands even 
with your blood, for why should I rob God of His own 
vengeance ? If you attempt to touch me, or even to sepa- 
rate me from this poor woman whom you have fooled, 
then I will kill — not you, but myself, and I swear to you 
that my ghost shall accompany you to Spain, and from 
Spain down to the hell that awaits you. Listen, Carlos 
d’Aguilar, Marquis of Morelia, this I know about you, 
that you believe in God and fear His anger. Well, I call 
down upon you the vengeance of Almighty God. I see 
it hang above your head. I say that it shall fall upon you, 
waking and sleeping, loving and hating, in life and in 
death to all eternity. Do your worst, for you shall do it 
all in vain. Whether I die or whether I live, every pang 
that you cause me to suffer, every misery that you have 
brought, or shall bring, upon the head of my betrothed, my 
father, and this woman, shall be repaid to you a million- 
fold in this world and the next. Now do you still wish 
that I should accompany you to Spain, or will you let me 
go?” 

“I cannot,” he answered hoarsely; “it is too late.” 

“So be it, I will accompany you to Spain, I and Betty 
Dene, and the vengeance of Almighty God that hovers 
over you. Of this at least be sure — I hate you, I despise 
you, but I fear you not at all. Go.” 

Then d’Aguilar stumbled from that cabin, and the two 
women heard the door bolted behind him. 


CHAPTER X 

THE CHASE 

About the time that Margaret and Betty were being 
rowed aboard the San Antonio ^ Peter Brome and his 
servants, who had been delayed an hour or more by the 
muddy state of the roads, pulled rein at the door of the 
house in Holborn. For over a month he had been dream- 
ing of this moment of return, as a man does who expects 
such a welcome as he knew awaited him, and who on the 
morrow was to be wed to a lovely and beloved bride. 
He had thought how Margaret would be watching at the 
window, how, spying him advancing down the street, she 
would speed to the door, how he would leap from his 
horse and take her to his arms in front of every one if 
need be — for why should they be ashamed who were to 
be wed upon the morrow? 

But there was no Margaret at the window, or at any 
rate he could not see her, for it was dark. There was not 
even a light; indeed the whole face of the old house 
seemed to frown at him through the gloom. Still, Peter 
played his part according to the plan; that is, he leapt 
from his horse, ran to the door and tried to enter, but 
could not, for it was locked, so he hammered on it with 
the handle of his sword, till at length some one came and 
124 


THE CHASE 


125 

unbolted. It was the hired man with whom Margaret 
had left the letter, and he held a lantern in his hand. 

The sight of him frightened Peter, striking a chill to 
his heart. 

“Who are you?” he asked, then, without waiting for 
an answer, went on, “Where are Master Castell and 
Mistress Margaret?” 

The man answered that the master was not yet back 
from his ship, and that the Lady Margaret had gone out 
nearly three hours before with her cousin Betty and a 
sailor — all of them on horseback. 

“She must have ridden to meet me, and missed us in 
the dark,” said Peter aloud, whereon the man asked 
whether he spoke to Master Brome, since, if so, he had a 
letter for him. 

“Yes,” answered Peter, and snatched it from his hand, 
bidding him close the door and hold up the lantern while 
he read, for he could see that the writing was that of 
Margaret. 

“A strange story,” he muttered, as he finished it. 
“Well, I must away.” And he turned to the door again. 

As he stretched out his hand to the key, it opened, and 
through it came Castell, as sound as ever he had been. 

“Welcome, Peter!” he cried in a jolly voice. “I knew 
you were here, for I saw the horses; but why are you not 
with Margaret?” 

“Because Margaret has gone to be with you, who 
should be hurt almost to death, or so says this letter.” 

“To be with me — hurt to the death! Give it me — 
nay, read it, I cannot see.” 

So Peter read. 

“I scent a plot,” said Castell in a strained voice as he 
finished, “and I think that hound of a Spaniard is at the 


126 


MARGARET 


bottom of it, or. Betty, or both. Here, you fellow, tell us 
what you know, and be swift if you would keep a sound 
skin. 

“That would I, why not?’’ answered the man, and 
told all the tale of the coming of the sailor. 

“ Go, bid the men bring back the horses, all of them,” 
said Castell almost before he had done, “and Peter, look 
not so dazed, but come, drink a cup of wine. We shall 
need it, both of us, before this night is over. Here, is 
there never a fellow of all my servants in the house?” 
So he shouted till his folk, who had returned with him 
from the ship, came running from the kitchen. 

He bade them bring food and liquor and while they 
gulped down the wine, for they could not eat, Castell 
told how their mistress Margaret had been tricked away, 
and must be followed. Then, hearing the horses being 
led back from the stables, they ran to the door and 
mounted, and, followed by their men, a dozen or more 
of them in all, gallopped off into the darkness, taking that 
road for Tilbury by which Margaret went, not because 
they were sure of this, but because it was the shortest. 

But the horses were tired, and the night was dark and 
rainy, so it came about that the clock of some church 
struck three of the morning before ever they drew near to 
Tilbury. Now they were passing the little quay where 
Margaret and Betty had entered the boat, Castell and 
Peter riding side by side ahead of the others in stern 
silence, for they had nothing to say, when a familiar 
voice hailed them — that of Thomas the groom. 

“I saw your horses’ heads against the sky,” he explained, 
“and knew them.” 

“Where is your mistress?” they asked both in a breath. 

“Gone, gone with Mistress Betty in a boat, from this 


THE CHASE 


127 


quay, to be rowed to the Margaret, or so I thought. 
Having stabled the horses as I was bidden, I came back 
here to await them. But that was hours ago, and I have 
seen no soul, and heard nothing except the wind and the 
water, till I heard the galloping of your horses.’’ 

“On to Tilbury, and get boats,” said Castell. “We 
must catch the Margaret ere she sails at dawn. Perhaps 
the women are aboard of her.” 

“If so, I think Spaniards took them there, for I am sure 
they were not English in that craft,” said Thomas, as he 
ran by the side of Castell’s horse, holding to the stirrup 
leather. 

His master made no answer, only Peter groaned aloud, 
for he too was sure that they were Spaniards. 

An hour later, just as the dawn broke, they with their 
men, climbed to the deck of the Margaret while she was 
hauling up her anchor. A few words with her captain, 
Jacob Smith, told them the worst. No boat had left the 
ship, no Margaret had come aboard her. But some six 
hours before they had watched the Spanish vessel, San 
Antonio, that had been berthed above them, pass down 
the river. Moreover, two watermen in a skiff, who 
brought them fresh meat, had told them that while they 
were delivering three sheep and some fowls to the San 
Antonio, just before she sailed, they had seen two tall 
women helped up her ladder, and heard one of them say 
in English, “Lead me to my father.” 

Now they knew all the awful truth, and stared at each 
other like dumb men. 

It was Peter who found his tongue the first, and said 
slowly: 

“I must away to Spain to find my bride, if she still 
lives, and to kill that fox. Go you home. Master Castell.” 


128 


MARGARET 


“My home is where my daughter is/’ answered Castell 
fiercely. “I go a-sailing also.” 

“There is danger for you in that land of Spaniards, if 
ever we get yonder,” said Peter meaningly. 

“If it were the mouth of hell, still I would go,” replied 
Castell. “Why should I not who seek a devil?” 

“That we do both,” said Peter, and stretching out his 
hand he took that of Castell. It was the pledge of the 
father and the lover to follow her who was all to them, 
till death stayed their quest. 

Castell thought a little while, then gave orders that all 
the crew should be called together on deck in the waist 
of the ship, which was a carack of about two hundred 
tons burden, round fashioned, and sitting deep in the 
water, but very strongly built of oak, and a swift sailor. 
When they were gathered, and with them the officers 
and their own servants, accompanied by Peter, he went and 
addressed them just as the sun was rising. In few and 
earnest words he told them of the great outrage that had 
been done, and how it was his purpose, and that of Peter 
Brome, who had been wickedly robbed of the maid who 
this day should have become his wife, to follow the thieves 
across the sea to Spain, in the hope that by the help of 
God they might rescue Margaret and Betty. He added 
that he knew well this was a service of danger, since it 
might chance that there would be fighting, and he was 
loath to ask any man to risk life or limb against his will, 
especially as they came out to trade and not to fight. 
Still, to those who chose to accompany them, should they 
win through safely, he promised double wage, and a 
present charged upon his estate, and would give them 
writings to that effect. As for those who did not, they 
could leave the ship now before she sailed. 


THE CHASE 


129 


When he had finished, the sailormen, of whom there 
were about thirty, with the stout-hearted captain, Jacob 
Smith, a sturdy-built man of fifty years of age, at the head 
of them, conferred together, and at last, with one excep- 
tion — that of a young new-married man, whose heart 
failed him — they accepted the offer, swearing that they 
would see the thing through to the end, were it good or 
ill, for they were all Englishmen, and no lovers of the 
Spaniards. Moreover, so bitter a wrong stirred their 
blood. Indeed, although for the most part they were 
not sailors, six of the twelve men who had ridden with 
them from London prayed that they might come too, for 
the love they had to Margaret, their master, and Peter; 
and they took them. The other six they sent ashore 
again, bearing letters to CastelPs friends, agents, and 
reeves, as to the transfer of his business and the care of 
his lands, houses, and other properties during his absence. 
Also, they took a short will duly signed by Castell and 
witnessed, wherein he left all his goods of whatever sort 
that remained unsettled or undevised to Margaret and 
Peter, or the survivor of them, or their heirs, or, failing 
these, for the purpose of founding a hospital for the poor. 
Then these men bade them farewell and departed, very 
heavy at heart, just as the anchor was hauled home, 
and the sails began to draw in the stiff morning 
breeze. 

About ten o’clock they rounded the Nore bank safely, 
and here spoke a fishing-boat, who told them that more 
than six hours before they had seen the San Antonio sail 
past them down Channel, and noted two women standing 
on her deck, holding each other’s hands, and gazing 
shorewards. Then, knowing that there was no mistake, 
there being nothing more that they could do, worn out 
9 


MARGARET 


130 

with grief and journeying, they ate some food and went to 
their cabin to sleep. 

As he laid him down Peter remembered that at this 
very hour he should have been in church taking Margaret 
as his bride — Margaret, who was now in the power of 
the Spaniard, and swore a great and bitter oath that 
d ’Aguilar should pay him back for all this shame and 
agony. Indeed, could his enemy have seen the look on 
Peter’s face he might well have been afraid, for this Peter 
was an ill man to cross, and had no forgiving heart; also, 
his wrong was deep. 

For four days the wind held, and they ran down Channel 
before it, hoping to catch sight of the Spaniard; but the 
San Antonio was a swift caravel of 250 tons with much 
canvas, for she carried four masts, and although the 
Margaret was also a good sailor, she had but two masts, 
and could not come up with her. Or, for anything they 
knew, they might have missed her on the seas. 

On the afternoon of the fourth day, when they were 
off the Lizard, and creeping along very slowly under a 
light breeze, the look-out man reported a ship lying be- 
calmed ahead. Peter, who had the eyes of a hawk, 
climbed up the mast to look at her, and presently called 
down that he believed from her shape and rig she must 
be the caravel, though of this he could not be sure as he 
had never seen her. Then the captain. Smith, went up 
also, and a few minutes later returned saying that without 
doubt it was the San Antonio. 

Now there was a great and joyful stir on board the 
Margaret, every man seeing to his sword and their long 
or cross bows, of which there were plenty, although they 
had no bombardes or cannon, that as yet were rare on 
merchant ships. Their plan was to run alongside the 


THE CHASE 


131 

San Antonio and board her, for thus they hoped to recover 
Margaret. As for the anger of the king, which might 
well fall on them for this deed, since he would think little 
of the stealing of a pair of Englishwomen, of that they 
must take their chance. 

Within half an hour everything was ready, and Peter, 
pacing to and fro, looked happier than he had done since 
he rode away to Dedham. The light breeze still held, 
although, if it reached the San Antonio ^ it did not seem 
to move her, and with the help of it, by degrees they came 
to within half a mile of the caravel. Then the wind 
dropped altogether, and there the two ships lay. Still 
the set of the tide, or some current, seemed to be drawing 
them towards each other, so that when the night closed 
in they were not more than four hundred paces apart, 
and the Englishmen had great hopes that before morning 
they would close, and be able to board by the light of the 
moon. 

But this was not to be, since about nine o’clock thick 
clouds rose up which covered the heavens, while with the 
clouds came strong winds blowing off the land, and, when 
at length the dawn broke, all they could see of the San 
Antonio was her topmasts as she rose upon the seas, 
flying southwards swiftly. This, indeed, was the last 
sight they had of her for two long weeks. 

From Ushant all across the Bay the airs were very 
light and variable, but when at length they came ofF 
Finisterre a gale sprang up from the northeast which 
drove them forward very fast. It was on the second night 
of this gale that, as the sun set, running out of some mist 
and rain, suddenly they saw the San Antonio not a mile 
away, and rejoiced, for now they knew that she had not 
made for any port in the north of Spain, as, although she 


132 


MARGARET 


was bound for Cadiz, they feared she might have done 
to trick them. Then the rain came on again, and they 
saw her no more. 

All down the coast of Portugal the weather grew more 
heavy day by day, and when they reached St. Vincent’s 
Cape, and bore round for Cadiz, it blew a great gale. 
Now it was that for the third time they viewed the San 
Antonio laboring ahead of them, nor, except at night, 
did they lose sight of her any more until the end of that 
voyage. Indeed, on the next day they nearly came up 
with her, for she tried to beat in to Cadiz, but, losing 
one of her masts in a fierce squall, and seeing that the 
Margaret, which sailed better in this tempest, would soon 
be aboard of her, abandoned her plan and ran for the 
Straits of Gibraltar. 

Past Tarifa Point they went, having the coast of Africa 
on their right; past the bay of Algefiras, where the San 
Antonio did not try to harbor; past Gibraltar’s grey old 
rock where the signal fires were burning, and so at night- 
fall, with not a mile between them, out into the Mediter- 
ranean Sea. 

Here the gale was furious, so that they could scarcely 
carry a rag of canvas, and before morning lost one of their 
topmasts. It was an anxious night, for they knew not if 
they would live through it; moreover, the hearts of Castell 
and of Peter were torn with fear lest the Spaniard should 
founder and take Margaret with her to the bottom of the 
sea. When at length the wild, stormy dawn broke, how- 
ever, they saw her, apparently in an evil case, laboring 
away upon their starboard bow, and by noon came to 
within a furlong of her, so that they could see the sailors 
crawling about on her high poop and stern. Yes, and 
they saw more than this, for presently two women ran 


THE CHASE 


133 


from some cabin waving a white cloth to them; then 
were hustled back, whereby they learned that Margaret 
and Betty still lived and knew that they followed, and 
thanked God. Presently, also, there was a flash, and, 
before ever they heard the report, a great iron bullet fell 
upon their decks, and, rebounding, struck a sailor who 
stood by Peter on the breast, and dashed him away into 
the sea. The San Antonio had fired the bombard which 
she carried, but as no more shots came they judged that 
the cannon had broke its lashings or burst. 

A while after the San Antonio, two of whose masts were 
gone, tried to put about and run for Malaga, which they 
could see far away beneath the snow-capped mountains 
of the Sierra. But this the Spaniard could not do, for 
while she hung in the wind the Margaret came right 
atop of her, and as her men labored at the sails, every 
one of the Englishmen who could be spared, under the 
command of Peter, let loose on them with their long 
shafts and crossbows, and, though the heaving deck of 
the Margaret was no good platform, and the wind bent 
the arrows from their line, they killed and wounded eight 
or ten of them, causing them to loose the ropes so that the 
San Antonio swung round into the gale again. On the 
high tower of the caravel, his arm round the sternmost 
mast, stood d’Aguilar, shouting commands to his crew. 
Peter fitted an arrow to his string and, waiting until the 
Margaret was poised for a moment on the crest of a great 
sea, aimed and loosed, making allowance for the wind. 

True to line sped that shaft of his, yet, alas ! a span too 
high, for when a moment later d’Aguilar leapt from the 
mast, the arrow quivered in its wood, and pinned to it 
was the velvet cap he wore. Peter ground his teeth in 
rage and disappointment; almost he could have wept, for 


134 


MARGARET 


the vessels swung apart again, and his chance was 
gone. 

“Five times out of seven,” he said bitterly, “can I 
send a shaft through a bull’s ring at fifty paces to win a 
village badge, and now I cannot hit a man to save my 
love from shame. Surely God has forsaken me!” 

Through all that afternoon they held on, shooting with 
their bows whenever a Spaniard showed himself, and 
being shot at in return, though little damage was done to 
either side. But this they noted — that the San Antonio 
had sprung a leak in the gale, for she was sinking deeper 
in the water. The Spaniards knew it also, and, being 
aware that they must either run ashore or founder, for 
the second time put about, and, under a rain of English 
arrows, came right across the bows of the Margaret, 
heading for the little bay of Calahonda, that is the port 
of Motril, for here the shore was not much more than a 
league away. 

“Now,” said Jacob Smith, the captain of the Margaret, 
who stood under the shelter of the bulwarks with Castell 
and Peter, “up that bay lies a Spanish town. I know it, 
for I have anchored there, and if once the San Antonio 
reaches it, good-by to our lady, for they will take her to 
Granada, not thirty miles away across the mountains, 
where this Marquis of Morelia is a mighty man, for there 
is his palace. Say then, master, what shall we do? In 
five more minutes the Spaniard will be across our bows 
again. Shall we run her down, which will be easy, and 
take our chance of picking up the women, or shall we let 
them be taken captive to Granada and give up the chase ?” 

“Never,” said Peter. “There is another thing that 
we can do — follow them into the bay, and attack them 
there on shore.” 


THE CHASE 


135 


find ourselves among hundreds of the Spaniards, 
and have our throats cut,” answered Smith, the captain, 
coolly. 

“If we ran them dtown,” asked Castell, who had been 
thinking deeply all this while, “should we not sink 
also?” 

“It might be so,” answered Smith; “but we are built 
of English oak, and very stout forward, and I think not. 
But she would sink at once, being near to it already, and 
the odds are that the women are locked in the cabin or 
between decks out of reach of the arrows, and must go 
with her.” 

“There is another plan,” said Peter sternly, “and that 
is to grapple with her and board her, and this I will do.” 

The captain, a stout man with a flat face that never 
changed, lifted his eyebrows, which was his only way of 
showing surprise. 

“What!” he said. “In this sea? I have fought in 
some wars, but never have I known such a thing.” 

“Then, friend, you shall know it now, if I can but find 
a dozen men to follow me,” answered Peter with a savage 
laugh. “What? Shall I see my mistress carried off 
before my eyes and strike no blow to save her? Rather 
will I trust in God and do it, and if I die, then die I must, 
as a man should. There is no other way.” 

Then he turned and called in a loud voice to those who 
stood around or loosed arrows at the Spaniard: 

“Who will come with me aboard yonder ship? Those 
who live shall spend their days in ease thereafter, that I 
promise, and those who fall will win great fame and 
Heaven^s glory.” 

The crew looked at the waves running hill high, and 
the water-logged Spaniard laboring in the trough of them 


136 


MARGARET 


as she came round slowly in a wide circle, very doubtfully, 
as well they might, and made no answer. Then Peter 
spoke again. 

“There is no choice,” he said. “If we give that ship 
our stem we can sink her, but then how will the women 
be saved ? If we leave her alone, mayhap she will founder, 
and then how will the women be saved? Or she may 
win ashore, and they will be carried away to Granada, 
and how can we snatch them out of the hand of the Moors 
or of the power of Spain? But if we can take the ship, 
we may rescue them before they go down or reach land. 
Will none back me at this pinch?” 

“Aye, son,” said old Castell, “I will.” 

Peter stared at him in surprise. “You — at your 
years!” he said. 

“Yes, at my years. Why not ? I have the fewer to risk.” 

Then, as though he were ashamed of his doubts, one 
brawny sailorman stepped forward and said that he was 
ready for a cut at the Spanish thieves in foul weather as 
in fair. Next all CastelPs household servants came out 
in a body for love of him and Peter and their lady, and 
after them more sailors, till nearly half of those aboard, 
something over twenty in all, declared that they were 
ready for the venture, whereon Peter cried, “Enough.” 
Smith would have come also; but Castell said No, he must 
stop with the ship. 

Then, while the carack’s head was laid so as to cut 
the path of the San Antonio circling round them slowly 
like a wounded swan, and the boarders made ready their 
swords and knives, for here archery would not avail 
them, Castell gave some orders to the captain. He bade 
him, if they were cut down or taken, to put about and 
run for Seville, and there deliver over the ship and her 


THE CHASE 


137 


cargo to his partners and correspondents, praying them 
in his name to do their best by means of gold, for which 
the sale value of the vessel and her goods should be 
chargeable, or otherwise, to procure the release of Mar- 
garet and Betty, if they still lived, and to bring d’Aguilar, 
the Marquis of Morelia, to account for his crime. This 
done, he called to one of his servants to buckle on him a 
light steel breastplate from the ship^s stores. But Peter 
would wear no iron, because it was too heavy, only an 
archer’s jerkin of bull-hide, stout enough to turn a sword- 
cut, such as the other boarders put on also with steel 
caps, of both of which they had a plenty in the cabin. 

Now the San Antonio ^ having come round, was steering 
for the mouth of the bay in such fashion that she would 
pass them within fifty yards. Hoisting a small sail to 
give his ship way, the captain. Smith, took the helm of 
the Margaret and steered straight at her so as to cut her 
path, while the boarders, headed by Peter and Castell, 
gathered near the bowsprit, lay down there under shelter 
of the bulwarks, and waited. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE MEETING ON THE SEA 

For another minute or more the San Antonio held on 
until she divined the desperate purpose of their foe. Then 
seeing that soon the carack’s prow must crash into her 
frail side, she shifted her helm and came round several 
points, so that in the end the Margaret ran, not into her, 
but alongside of her, grinding against her planking, and 
shearing away a great length of her bulwark. For a 
few seconds they hung together thus, and, before the 
seas bore them apart, grapnels were thrown from the 
Margaret whereof one forward got hold and brought them 
bow to bow. Thus the end of the bowsprit of the Mar- 
garet projected over the high deck of the San Antonio. 

“Now for it,” said Peter. “Follow me, all.” And 
springing up, he ran to the bowsprit and began to swarm 
along it. 

It was a fearful task. One moment the great seas 
lifted him high into the air, and the next down he came 
again till the massive spar crashed on to the deck of the 
San Antonio with such a shock that he nearly flew from 
it like a stone from a sling. Yet he hung on and, biding 
his chance, seized a broken stay-rope that dangled from 
the end of the bowsprit like a lash from a whip, and began 
138 




THE GALE CAUGHT HIM AND BLEW HIM TO AND FRO 



THE MEETING ON THE SEA 


139 


to slide down it. The gale caught him and blew him to 
and fro, the vessel, pitching wildly, jerked him into the 
air; the deck of the San Antonio rose up and receded like 
a thing alive. It was near — not a dozen feet beneath 
him — and loosing his hold he fell upon the forward 
tower without being hurt, then, gaining his feet, ran to 
the broken mast, and, flinging his left arm about it, with 
the other drew his sword. 

Next instant — how, he never knew — Castell was at 
his side, and after him came two more men, but one of 
these rolled from the deck into the sea and was lost. 
As he vanished, the chain of the grappling iron parted, 
and the Margaret swung away from them, leaving those 
three alone in the power of their foes, nor, do what she 
would, could she make fast again. As yet, however, there 
were no Spaniards to be seen, for the reason that none 
had dared to stand upon this high tower whereof the 
bulwarks were all gone, while the bowsprit of the Mar- 
garet crashed down upon it like a giant’s club, and, as 
she rolled, swept it with its point. 

So there they stood, clinging to the mast and waiting 
for the end, for now their friends were a hundred yards 
away, and they knew that their case was desperate. A 
shower of arrows came, loosed from other parts of the 
ship, and one of these struck the man with them through 
the throat, so that he fell to the deck clasping at it, and 
presently rolled into the sea also. Another pierced Castell 
through his right fore- arm, causing his sword to drop 
and slide away from him. Peter seized the arrow, snapped 
it in two, and drew it out; but Castell ’s right arm was 
now helpless, and with his left he could do no more than 
cling to the broken mast. 

“We have done our best, son,” he said, “and failed. 


140 


MARGARET 


Margaret will learn that we would have saved her if we 
could, but we shall not meet her here.” 

Peter ground his teeth, and looked about him desper- 
ately, for he had no words to say. What should he do? 
Leave Castell and rush for the waist of the ship and so 
perish, or stay and die there? Nay, he would not be 
butchered like a bird on a bough, he would fall fighting, 

“Farewell,” he called through the gale. “God rest 
our souls!” Then, waiting till the ship steadied herself, 
he ran aft, and reaching the ladder that led to her tower, 
staggered down it to the waist of the vessel, and at its 
foot halted, holding to the rail. 

The scene before him was strange enough, for there, 
ranged round the bulwarks, were the Spanish men, who 
watched him curiously, whilst a few paces away, resting 
against the mast, stood d’Aguilar, who lifted his hand, 
in^ which there was no weapon, and addressed him. 

“Senor Brome,” he shouted, “do not move another 
step or you are a dead man. Listen to me first, and then 
do what you will. Am I safe from your sword while I 
speak?” 

Peter nodded his head in assent, and d’Aguilar drew 
nearer, for even in that more sheltered place it was hard 
to hear because of the -howling of the tempest. 

“Senor,” he said to Peter, “you are a very brave man, 
and have done a deed such as none of us have seen before ; 
therefore, I wish to spare you if I may. Also, I have 
worked you bitter wrong, driven to it by the might of 
love and jealousy, for which reason also I wish to spare 
you. To set upon you now would be but murder, and, 
whatever else I do, I will not murder. First, let me ease 
your mind. Your lady and mine is aboard here; but fear 
not, she has come and will come to no harm from me, or 


THE MEETING ON THE SEA 


141 

from any man while I live. If for no other reason I do 
not desire to affront one who, I hope, will be my wife by 
her own free will, and whom I have brought to Spain 
that she might not make this impossible by becoming 
yours. Sehor, believe me, I would no more force a 
woman’s will than I would do murder on her lover.” 

‘‘What did you, then, when you snatched her from 
her home by some foul trick?” asked Peter fiercely. 

“Senor, I did wrong to her and all of you, for which I 
would make amends.” 

“What amends? Will you give her back to me?” 

“No, that I cannot do, even if she should wish it, of 
which I am not sure; no — never while I live.” 

“Bring her forth, and let us hear whether she wishes 
it or no,” shouted Peter, hoping that his words would 
reach Margaret. 

But d’Aguilar only smiled and shook his head, then 
went on: 

“That I cannot either, for it would give her pain. 
Still, Senor, I will repay the heavy debt that I owe to you, 
and to you also, Senor.” And he bowed towards Castell, 
who, unseen by Peter, had crept down the ladder, and 
now stood behind him staring at d’Aguilar with cold rage 
and indignation. “You have wrought us much damage, 
have you not? hunting us across the seas, and killing 
sundry of us with your arrows, and now you have striven 
to board our ship and put us to the sword, a design in 
which God has frustrated you. Therefore your lives are 
justly forfeit, and none would blame us if we slew you. 
Yet I spare you both. If it is possible I will put you back 
aboard the Margaret, and if it is not possible you shall 
be set free ashore to go unmolested whither you will. 
Thus I will wipe out my debt and be free of all reproach.” 


142 


MARGARET 


“Do you take me for such a man as yourself?” asked 
Peter, with a bitter laugh. “I do not leave this ship 
alive unless my affianced wife, Mistress Margaret, goes 
with me.” 

“Then, Senor Brome, I fear that you will leave it dead, 
as indeed we may all of us, unless we make land soon, 
for the vessel is filling fast with water. Still, knowing 
your metal, I looked for some such words from you, and 
am prepared with another offer, which I am sure you 
will not refuse. Senor, our swords are much of the same 
length, shall we measure them against each other ? I am 
a grandee of Spain, the Marquis of Morelia, and it will, 
therefore, be no dishonor for you to fight with me.” 

“I am not so sure,” said Peter, “for I am more than 
that — an honest man of England, who never practised 
woman-stealing. Still, I will fight you gladly, at sea or 
on shore, wherever and whenever we meet, till one or 
both are dead. But what is the stake, and how do I 
know that some of these,” and he pointed to the crew, 
who were listening intently, “will not stab me from 
behind?” 

“^Senor, I have told you that I do not murder, and that 
would be the foulest murder. As for the stake, it is 
Margaret to the victor. If you kill me, on behalf of all 
my company, I swear by our Saviour’s Blood that you 
shall depart with her and her father unharmed, and if I 
kill you, then you both shall swear that she shall be left 
with me, and no suit or question raised ; but to her woman 
I give liberty, who have seen more than enough of her.” 

“Nay,” broke in Castell, speaking for the first time, 
“I demand the right to fight with you also when my arm 
is healed.” 

“ I ‘refuse it,” answered d’ Aguilar haughtily. “ I cannot 


THE MEETING ON THE SEA 


143 


lift my sword against an old man who is the father of the 
maid who shall be my wife, and, moreover, a merchant and 
a Jew. Nay, answer me not, lest all these should remem- 
ber your ill words. I will be generous, and leave you 
out of the oath. Do your worst against me. Master 
Castell, and then leave me to do my worst against you. 
Senor Brome, the light grows bad, and the water gains 
upon us. Say, are you ready 

Peter nodded his head, and they stepped forward. 

‘‘ One more word,’’ said d’Aguilar, dropping his sword- 
point. ‘‘My friends, you have heard our compact. Do 
you swear to abide by it, and, if I fall, to set these two 
men and the two ladies free on their own ship or on the 
land, for the honor of chivalry and of Spain?” 

The captain of the San Antonio and his lieutenants 
answered that they swore on behalf of all the crew. 

“You hear, Senor Brome. Now these are the condi- 
tions — that we fight to the death, but, if both of us 
should be hurt or wounded, so that we cannot despatch 
each other, then no further harm shall be done to either 
of us, who shall be tended till we recover, or die by the 
will of God.” 

“You mean that we must die on each other’s swords, 
or not at all, and if any foul chance should overtake either, 
other than by his adversary’s hand, that adversary shall 
not dispatch him?” 

“Yes, Senor, for in our case such things may happen,” 
and he pointed to the huge seas that towered over them, 
threatening to engulf the water-logged caravel. “We will 
take no advantage of each other, who wish to fight this 
quarrel out with our own right arms.” 

“So be it,” said Peter, “and Master Castell here is the 
witness to our bargain.” 


144 


MARGARET 


D ’Aguilar nodded, kissed ,the cross-hilt of his sword in 
confirmation of the pact, bowed courteously, and put 
himself on his defence. 

For a moment they stood facing each other, a well- 
matched pair — Peter, lean, fierce-faced, long-armed, a 
terrible man to see in the fiery light that broke upon him 
from beneath the edge of a black cloud; the Spaniard tall 
also, and agile, but to all appearance as unconcerned as 
though this were but a pleasure bout, and not a duel to 
the death with a woman’s fate hanging on the hazard. 
D ’Aguilar wore a breastplate of gold- inlaid black steel 
and a helmet, while Peter had but his tunic of bull’s-hide 
and iron-lined cap, though his straight cut-and-thrust 
sword was heavier and mayhap half an inch longer than 
that of his foe. 

Thus, then, they stood while Castell and all the ship’s 
company, save the helmsman who steered her to the 
harbor’s mouth, clung to the bulwarks, and the cordage 
of the mainmast, and, forgetful of their own peril, watched 
in utter silence. 

It was Peter who thrust the first, straight at the throat, 
but d’Aguilar parried deftly, so that the sword point went 
past his neck, and before it could be drawn back again, 
struck at Peter. The blow fell upon the side of his steel 
cap, and glanced thence to his left shoulder, but, being 
light, did him no harm. Swiftly came the answer, which 
was not light, for it fell so heavily upon d’Aguilar’s breast- 
plate, that he staggered back. After him sprang Peter, 
thinking that the game was his, but at that moment the 
ship, which had entered the breakers of the harbor bar, 
rolled terribly, and sent them both reeling to the bulwarks. 
Nor did she cease her rolling, so that, smiting and thrust- 
ing wildly, they staggered backwards and forwards across 


THE MEETING ON THE SEA 


145 


the deck, gripping with their left hands at anything they 
could find to steady them, till at length, bruised and 
breathless, they fell apart unwounded, and rested awhile. 

“An ill field this to fight on, Senor,” gasped d’Aguilar. 

“ I think it will serve our turn,” said Peter grimly, and 
rushed at him like a bull. It was just then that a great 
sea came aboard the ship, a mass of green water which 
struck them both and washed them like straws into the 
scuppers, where they rolled half drowned. Peter rose 
the first, coughing out salt water, and rubbing it from his 
eyes, to see d’Aguilar still upon the deck, his sword lying 
beside him, and holding his right wrist with his left hand. 

“Who gave you the hurt?” he asked, “I or your fall?” 

“The fall, Senor,” answered d’Aguilar; “I think that 
it has broken my wrist. But I have still my left hand. 
Suffer me to arise, and we will finish this fray.” 

As the words passed his lips a gust of wind, more 
furious than any that had gone before, concentrated as it 
was through a gorge in the mountains, struck the caravel 
at the very mouth of the harbor, and laid her over on her 
beam ends. For a while it seemed as though she must 
capsize and sink, till suddenly her mainmast snapped like 
a stick and went overboard, when, relieved of its weight, 
by slow degrees she righted herself. Down upon the 
deck came the cross yard, one end of it crashing through 
the roof of the cabin where Margaret and Betty were 
confined, splitting it in two, while a block attached to the 
other fell upon the side of Peter’s head and, glancing from 
the steel cap, struck him on the neck and shoulder, hurling 
him senseless to the deck, where, still grasping his sword, 
he lay with arms outstretched. 

Out of the ruin of the cabin appeared Margaret and 
Betty, the former very pale and frightened, and the latter 
10 


146 


MARGARET 


muttering prayers, but, as it chanced, both uninjured. 
Clinging to the tangled ropes they crept forward, seeking 
refuge in the waist of the ship, for the heavy spar still 
worked and rolled above them, resting on the wreck of 
the cabin and the bulwarks, whence presently it slid into 
the sea. By the stump of the broken mainmast they 
halted, their long locks streaming in the gale, and here it 
was that Margaret caught sight of Peter lying upon his 
back, his face red with blood, and sliding to and fro as 
the vessel rolled. 

She could not speak, but in mute appeal pointed first to 
him and then to d’Aguilar, who stood near, remembering 
as she did so her vision in the house at Holborn, which 
was thus terribly fulfilled. Holding to a rope, d’Aguilar 
drew near to her and spoke into her ear. 

“Lady,” he said, “this is no deed of mine. We were 
fighting a fair fight, for he had boarded the ship, when 
the mast fell and killed him. Blame me not for his death, 
but seek comfort from God.” 

She heard, and, looking round her wildly, perceived 
her father struggling towards her; then with a bitter cry 
fell senseless on his breast. 



“LADY,” HE SAID, 


“THIS IS NO DEED OF MINE” 


•* 












CHAPTER XII 

FATHER HENRIQUES 

The night came down swiftly, for a great storm-cloud, 
in which jagged lightning played, blotted out the last rays 
of the sunk sun. Then, with rolling thunder and torrents 
of rain, the tempest burst over the sinking ship. The 
mariners could no longer see to steer, they knew not 
whither they were going, only the lessened seas told them 
that they had entered the harbor mouth. Presently the 
San Antonio struck upon a rock, and the shock of it threw 
Castell, who was bending over the senseless shape of 
Margaret, against the bulwarks, and dazed him. 

There arose a great cry of “The vessel founders!” and 
water seemed to be pouring on the deck, though whether 
this were from the sea or from the deluge of the falling 
rain he did not know. Then came another cry of “Get 
out the boat, or we perish!” and a sound of men working 
in the darkness. The ship swung round and round and 
settled down. There was a flash of lightning, and by it 
Castell saw Betty holding the unconscious Margaret in 
her strong arms. She saw him also, and screamed to 
him to come to the boat. He started to obey, then re- 
membered Peter. Peter might not be dead; what should 
he say to Margaret if he left him there to drown? He 
147 


148 


MARGARET 


crept to where he lay upon the deck, and called to a sailor 
who rushed by to help him. The man answered with a 
curse, and vanished into the deep gloom. So, unaided, 
Castell essayed the task of lifting this heavy body, but, 
his right arm being almost useless, could do no more than 
drag it into a sitting posture, and thus, by slow degrees, 
across the deck to where he imagined the boat to be. 

But here there was no boat, and now the sound of 
voices came from the other side of the ship, so he must 
drag it back again. By the time he reached the starboard 
bulwarks all was silent, and another flash of lightning 
showed him the boat, crowded with people, upon the 
crest of a wave, fifty yards or more from him, whilst others, 
who had not been able to enter, clung to its stem and 
gunwale. He shouted aloud, but no answer came, either 
because none were left living on the ship, or because in 
all that turmoil they could not hear him. 

Then Castell, knowing that he had done everything 
that he could, dragged Peter under the overhanging deck 
of the forward tower, which gave some httle shelter from 
the rain and driving spray, and, laying his bleeding head 
upon his knees so that it might be Hfted above the wash 
of the waters, sat himself down and began to say prayers 
after the Jewish fashion whilst awaiting his end. 

That he was about to die he had no doubt, for the waist 
of the ship, as he could perceive by the lightning, was 
almost level with the sea, which, however, here in the 
harbor was now much calmer than it had been. This he 
knew, for although the rain still fell steadily, and the 
wind howled above, no spray broke over them. Deeper 
and deeper sank the caravel as she drifted onwards, till 
at length the water washed over her deck from side to 
side, so that Castell was obliged to seat himself on the 


FATHER HENRIQUES 


149 


d 
a . 


1 


[ 

[ 




second step of the ladder down which Peter had charged 
on the Spaniards. A while passed, and he became aware 
that the San Antonio had ceased to move, and wondered 
what this might mean. The storm had rolled away now, 
and he could see the stars; also with it went the wind. 
The night grew warmer, too, which was well for him, for 
otherwise, wet as he was, he must have perished. Still 
it was a long night, the longest that ever he had spent, nor 
did any sleep come to reheve his misery or make his end 
easier, for the pain from the arrow wound in his arm kept 
him awake. 

So there he sat, wondering if Margaret was dead, as 
Peter seemed to be dead, and if so, whether their spirits 
were watching him now, watching and waiting till he 
joined them. He thought, too, of the days of his pros- 
perity until he had seen the accursed face of d’Aguilar, 
and of all the worthless wealth that was his, and what 
would become of it. He hoped even that Margaret was 
gone ; better that she should be dead than live on in shame 
and misery. If there were a God, how came it that He 
could allow such things to happen in the world? Then 
he remembered how, when Job sat in just such an evil 
case, his wife had invited him to curse God and die, and 
how the patriarch had answered to her, “What! shall we 
receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive 
evil?’^ Remembered, too, after all his troubles, what 
had been the end of that just man, and therefrom took 
some httle comfort. 

After this a stupor crept over him, and his last thought 
was that the vessel had sunk, and he was departing into 
the deeps of death. 


Listen! A voice was calling, and Castell awoke to see 


MARGARET 


150 

that it was growing light, and that before him, supporting 
himself on the rail of the ladder, stood the tall form of 
Peter — Peter with a ghastly, blood-stained countenance, 
chattering teeth, and glazed, unnatural eyes. 

^‘Do you live, John Castell?’’ said that hollow voice, 
“or are we both dead and in hell?” 

“Nay,” he answered, “I live yet; we are still this side 
of doom.” 

“What has chanced?” asked Peter. “I have been lost 
in a great blackness.” 

Castell told him briefly. 

Peter listened till he had done, then staggered to the 
bulwark rail and looked about him, making no comment. 

“I can see nothing,” he said presently — “the mist is 
too deep; but I think we must lie near the shore. Come, 
help me. Let us try to find victuals; I am faint. 

Castell rose, stretched his cramped limbs, and going to 
him, placed his uninjured arm round Peter’s middle, and 
thus supported him towards the stem of the ship, where 
he guessed that the main cabin would be. They found 
and entered it, a small place, but richly furnished, with a 
carved cmcifix screwed to its stemmost wall. A piece 
of pickled meat and some of the hard, wheaten cakes such 
as sailors use lay upon the floor where they had been cast 
from the table, while in a swinging rack above stood 
flagons of wine and of water. Castell found a horn mug, 
and filling it with wine gave it to Peter, who drank greedily, 
then handed it back to him, who also drank. Afterwards 
they cut off portions of the meat with their knives, and 
swallowed them, though Peter did this with great difiB- 
culty because of the hurt to his head and neck. Then 
they drank more wine, and, somewhat refreshed, left the 
place. 


FATHER HENRIQUES 


151 

The mist was still so thick that they could see nothing, 
and therefore they went into the wreck of that cabin which 
had been occupied by Margaret and Betty, sat themselves 
down upon the bed wherein they had slept, and waited. 
Resting thus, Peter noted that this cabin had been fitted 
sumptuously as though for the occupation of a great lady, 
for even the vessels were of silver, and in a wardrobe, 
whereof the doors were open, hung beautiful gowns. 
Also, there were a few written books, on the outer leaves 
of one of which Margaret had set down some notes and a 
prayer of her own making, petitioning that Heaven would 
protect her; that Peter and her father might be living and 
learn the truth of what had befallen, and That it would 
please the saints to deliver her, and to bring them together 
again. This book Peter thrust away within his jerkin 
to study at his leisure. 

Now the sun rose suddenly above the eastern range of 
the mountains wherewith they were surrounded. Leaving 
the cabin, they climbed to the forecastle tower and gazed 
about them, to find that they were in a land-locked harbor, 
and stranded not more than a hundred yards from the 
shore. By tying a piece of iron to a rope and letting it 
down into the sea, they discovered that they lay upon a ridge, 
and that there were but four feet of water beneath their 
bow, and, having learned this, determined to wade to the 
beach. First, however, they went back to the cabin and 
filled a leather bag they found with food and wine. Then, 
by an after-thought, they searched for the place where 
d’Aguilar slept, and discovered it between decks, also a 
strong-box which they made shift to break open with an 
iron bar. 

In it was a great store of gold, placed there, no doubt, 
for the payment of the crew, and with it some jewels. 


152 


MARGARET 


The jewels they left, but the money they divided, and 
stowed it about them to serve their needs should they 
come safe ashore. Then they washed each other’s wounds 
and bound them up, and, descending the ladder which 
had been thrown over the ship’s side when the Spaniards 
escaped in the boat, let themselves down into the sea and 
bade farewell to the San Antonio. 

By now the wind had fallen and the sun shone brightly, 
warming their chilled blood; also the water, which \vas 
quite calm, did not rise much above their middles, so that 
they were able — the bottom being smooth and sandy — 
to wade without trouble to the shore. As they drew near 
to it they saw people gathering there, and guessed that 
they came from the little town of Motril, which lay up the 
river that here ran into the bay. Also they saw other 
things — namely, the boat of the San Antonio upon the 
shore, and rejoiced to know that it had come safe to land, 
for it rested upon its keel with but little water in its bottom. 
Lying here and there also were the corpses of drowned 
men, five or six of them; no doubt those sailors who had 
swum after the boat, or clung to its gunwale, but among 
these bodies none were those of women. 

When at length they reached the shore, but a few 
people were left there, for of the rest some had begun to 
wade out towards the ship to plunder her, whilst others 
had’ gone to fetch boats for the same purpose. Therefore, 
the company who awaited them consisted only of women, 
children, three old men, and a priest. The last, a hungry- 
eyed, smooth-faced, sly-looking man, advanced to greet 
them courteously, bidding them thank God for their 
escape. 

“That we do indeed,” said Castell; “but tell us. Father, 
where are our companions?” 


FATHER HENRIQUES 


153 


‘‘There are some of them/^ answered the priest, pointing 
to the dead bodies; “the rest, with the two senoras, started 
two hours ago for Granada. The Marquis of Morelia, 
from whom I hold this cure, told us that his ship had 
sunk, and that no one else was left alive, and, as the mist 
hid everything, we believed him. That is why we were 
not here before, for,’’ he added significantly, “we are poor 
folk, to whom the saints send few wrecks.” 

“How did they go to Granada, Father?” asked Castell. 
“On foot?” 

“Nay, Senor, they took all the horses and mules in the 
village by force, though the marquis promised that he 
would return them and pay for their hire later, and we 
trusted him because we must. The ladies wept much, 
and prayed us to take them in and keep them; but this the 
marquis would not allow, although they seemed so sad 
and weary. God send that we see our good' beasts back 
again,” he added piously. 

“Have you any left for us? We have a little money, 
and can pay for them if they be not too dear.” 

“Not one, Senor — not one; the place has been cleared 
even down to the mares in foal. But, indeed, you seem 
scarcely fit to ride at present, who have undergone so 
much,” and he pointed to Peter’s wounded head and 
Castell’s bandaged arm. “Why do you not stay and rest 
awhile?” 

“Because I am the father of one of the senoras, and 
doubtless she thinks me drowned, and this senor is her 
affianced husband,” answered Castell briefly. 

“Ah!” said the priest, looking at them with interest, 
“then what relation to her is the marquis? Well, per- 
haps I had better not ask, for this is no confessional, is it ? 
I understand that you are anxious, for that great grandee 


154 


MARGARET 


has the reputation of being gay — an excellent son of the 
Church, but without doubt very gay,” and he shook his 
shaven head and smiled. “But come up to the village, 
Senors, where you can rest and have your hurts attended 
to; afterwards we will talk.” 

“We had best go,” said Castell in English to Peter. 
“There are no horses on this beach, and we cannot walk 
to Granada in our state.” 

Peter nodded, and, led by the priest, whose name they 
discovered to be Henriques, they started. 

On the crest of a hill a few hundred paces away they 
turned and looked back, to see that every able-bodied 
inhabitant of the village seemed by now to be engaged in 
plundering the stranded vessel. 

“They are paying themselves for the mules and horses,” 
said Fray Henriques with a shrug. 

“So I see,” answered Castell, “but you ” and he 

stopped. 

, “Oh! do not be afraid for me,” replied the priest with 
a cunning smile. “The Church does not loot; but in the 
end the Church gets her share. These are a pious folk. 
Only when he learns that the caravel did not sink after all 
the marquis will demand an account of us.” 

Then they limped on over the hill, and presently saw 
the white- walled and red- roofed village beneath them on 
the banks of the river. 

Five minutes later their guide stopped at a door in a 
roughly paved street, which he opened with a key. 

“My humble dwelling, when I am in residence here, 
and not at Granada,” he said, “ where I shall be honored 
to receive you. Look, near by is the church.” 

Then they entered a patio, or courtyard, where some . 
orange-trees grew round a fountain of water, and a life- i 


FATHER HENRIQUES 


155 


sized crucifix stood against the wall. As he passed this 
sacred emblem Peter bowed and crossed himself, an 
example that Castell did not follow. The priest looked 
at him sharply. 

‘‘Surely, Senor,” he said, “you should do reverence to 
the symbol of our Saviour, who, by his mercy, have just 
been saved from that death which the marquis told me 
had overtaken both of you.” 

“My right arm is hurt,” answered Castell readily, “so 
I must do that reverence in my heart.” 

“I understand, Senor; but if you are a stranger to this 
country, which you do not seem to be, who speak its 
tongue so well, with your permission I will warn you that 
here it is wise not to confine your reverences to the heart. 
Of late the directors of the Inquisition have become some- 
what strict, and expect that the outward forms should be 
observed as well. Indeed, when I was a familiar of the 
Holy Office at Seville I have seen men burned for the 
neglect of them. You have two arms and a head, Senor„ 
also a knee that can be bent.” 

“Pardon me,” answered Castell to this lecture. “I 
was thinking of other matters. The carrying off of my 
daughter at the hands of your patron, the Marquis of 
Morelia, for instance.” 

Then, making no reply, the priest led them through his 
sitting-room to a bed-chamber with high-barred windows, 
that, although it was large and lofty, reminded them 
somehow of a prison cell. Here he left them, saying that 
he would go to find the local surgeon, who, it seemed, was 
a barber also, if, indeed, he were not engaged in “ lighten- 
ing the ship,” recommending them meanwhile to take off 
their wet clothes and lie down to rest. 

A woman having brought hot water and some loose 


MARGARET 


156 

garments in which to wrap themselves while their own 
were drying, they undressed and washed and afterwards, 
utterly worn out, threw themselves down and fell asleep 
upon the beds, having first hidden away their gold in the 
food bag, which Peter placed beneath his pillow. Two 
hours later or more they were awakened by the arrival of 
Father Henriques and the barber-surgeon, accompanied 
by the woman-servant who brought them back their 
clothes cleaned and dried. 

When the surgeon saw Peter’s hurt to the left side of 
his neck and shoulder, which now were black, swollen, 
and very stiff, he shook his head, and said that time and 
rest alone could cure it, and that he must have been born 
under a fortunate star to have escaped with his life, which, 
save for his steel cap and leather jerkin, he would never 
have done. As no bones were broken, however, all that 
he could do was to dress the parts with some soothing 
ointment and cover them with clean cloths. This finished, 
he turned to Castell’s wound, that was through the fleshy 
part of the right forearm, and, having syringed it out with 
warm water and oil, bound it up, saying that he would be 
well in a week. He added drily that the gale must have 
been fiercer even than he thought, since it could blow an 
arrow through a man’s arm — a saying at which the priest 
pricked up his ears. 

To this Castell made no answer, but producing a piece 
of Morelia’s gold, offered it to him for his services, asking 
him at the same time to procure them mules or horses, if 
he could. The barber promised to try to do so, and being 
well pleased with his fee, which was a great one for Motril, 
said that he would see them again in the evening, and if 
he could hear of any beasts would tell them of it then. 
Also he promised to bring them some clothes and cloaks 


FATHER HENRIQUES 


157 


of Spanish make, since those they had were not fit to travel 
in through that country, being soiled and bloodstained. 

After he had gone, and the priest with him, who was 
busy seeing to the division of the spoils from the ship and 
making sure of his own share, the servant, a good soul, 
brought them soup, which they drank. Then they lay 
down again upon the beds and talked together as to what 
they should do. 

Castell was down-hearted, pointing out that they were 
still as far from Margaret as ever, who was now once more 
lost to them, and in the power of Morelia, whence they 
could scarcely hope to snatch her. It would seem also 
that she was being taken to the Moorish city of Granada, 
if she were not already there, where Christian law and 
justice had no power. 

When he had heard him out, Peter, whose heart was 
always stout, answered: 

“ God has as much power in Granada as in London, or 
on the seas whence He has saved us. I think. Sir, that 
we have great reason to be thankful to God, seeing that 
we are both alive to-day, who might so well have been 
dead, and that Margaret is alive also, and, as we believe, 
unharmed. Further, this Spanish thief of women is, it 
would seem, a strange man, that is, if there be any truth 
in his words, for although he could steal her, it appears 
that he cannot find it in his heart to do her violence, but is 
determined to win her only with her own consent, which 
I think will not be had readily. Also, he shrinks from 
murder, who, when he could have butchered us, did not 
do so.” 

‘T have known such men before,” said Castell, “who 
hold some sins venial, but others deadly to their souls. 
It is a fruit of superstition.” 


MARGARET 


158 

“Then, Sir, let us pray that Morella^s superstitions may 
remain strong, and get us to Granada as quickly as we 
can, for there, remember, you have friends, both 
among the Jews and Moors, who have traded with the 
place for many years, and these may give us shelter. 
Therefore, though things are bad, still they might be 
worse.” 

“That is so,” answered Castell more cheerfully, “if, 
indeed, she has been taken to Granada, and as to this we 
will try to learn something from the barber or the Father 
Henriques.” 

“I put no faith in that priest, a sly fellow who is in the 
pay of Morelia,” answered Peter. 

Then they were silent, being still very wear}", and having 
nothing more to say, but much to think about. 

About sundown the doctor came back and dressed their 
wounds, hie brought with him a stock of clothes of 
Spanish make, hats and two heavy cloaks fit to travel in, 
which they bought from him at a good price. Also, he 
said that he had two fine mules in the courtyard, and 
Castell went out to look at them. They were sorry beasts 
enough, being poor and wayworn, but as no others were 
to be had they returned to the room to talk as to the price 
of them and their saddles. The chaffering was long, for 
he asked twice their value, which Castell said poor ship- 
wrecked men could not pay ; but in the end they struck a 
bargain, under which the barber was to keep and feed the 
mules for the night, and bring them round next morning 
with a guide who would show them the road to Granada. 
Meanwhile, they paid him for the clothes, but not for the 
beasts. 

Also they tried to learn something from him about the 
Marquis of Morelia, but, like the Fray Henriques, the 


FATHER HENRIQUES 


159 


man was cunning, and kept his mouth shut, saying that 
it was ill for poor men like himself to chatter of the great, 
and that at Granada they could hear everything. So he 
went away, leaving some medicine for them to drink, and 
shortly afterwards the priest appeared. 

He was in high good-humor, having secured those 
jewels which they had left behind in the iron coffer as his 
share of the spoil of the ship. Taking note of him as he 
showed and fondled them, Castell added up the man, and 
concluded that he was very avaricious; one who hated the 
poverty in which he had been reared, and would do much 
for money. Indeed, when he spoke bitterly of the thieves 
who had been at the ship’s strong-box, and taken nearly 
all the gold, Castell determined that he must never know 
who those thieves were, lest they should meet with some 
accident on their journey. 

At length the trinkets were put away, and the priest 
said that they must sup with him, but lamented that he 
had no wine to give them, who was forced to drink water; 
whereon Castell prayed him to procure a few flasks of the 
best at their charges, which, nothing loth, he sent his 
servant out to do. 

So, dressed in their new Spanish clothes, and having all 
the gold hidden about them in two money-belts that they 
had bought from the barber at the same time, they went 
into supper, which consisted of a Spanish dish called olla 
podrida — a kind of rich stew — bread, cheese, and fruit. 
Also the wine that they had bought was there, ver>^ good 
and strong, and, whilst taking but little of it themselves 
for fear they should fever their wounds, they persuaded 
Father Henriques to drink heartily, so that in the end he 
forgot his cunning, and spoke with freedom. Then, 
seeing that he was in a ripe humor, Castell asked him 


i6o 


MARGARET 


about the Marquis of Morelia, and how it happened that 
he had a house in the Moorish capital of Granada. 

“Because he is half a Moor,” answered the priest. 
“His father, it is said, was the Prince of Viana, and his 
mother a lady of royal Moorish blood, from whom he 
inherited great wealth, and his lands and palace in Gra- 
nada. There, too, he loves to dwell, who, although he is 
so good a Christian by faith, has many heathen tastes, 
and like the Moors surrounds himself with a seraglio of 
beautiful women, as I know, for often I act as his chaplain 
as in Granada there are no priests. Moreover, there is a 
purpose in all this, for, being partly of their blood, he is 
accredited to the court of their sultan, Boabdil, by Fer- 
dinand and Isabella in whose interests he works in secret. 
For, strangers, you should know, if you do not know it 
already, that their Majesties have for long been at war 
against the Moor, and purpose to take what remains of 
his kingdom from him, and make it Christian, as they 
have already taken Malaga, and purified it by blood and 
fire from the accursed stain of infidelity.” 

“Yes,” said Castell, “we heard that in England, for I 
am a merchant who have dealings with Granada, whither 
I am going on my affairs.” 

“On what affairs then goes the senora, who you say is 
your daughter, and what is that story that the sailors told 
of, about a fight between the San Antonio and an English 
ship, which indeed we saw in the offing yesterday? And 
why did the wind blow an arrow through your arm, friend 
Merchant ? And how came it that you two were left aboard 
the caravel when the marquis and his people escaped?” 

“You ask many questions, holy Father. Peter, fill the 
glass of his reverence; he drinks nothing who thinks that 
it is always Lent. Your health. Father* Ah! well emp- 


FATHER HENRIQUES 


i6i 


tied. Fill it again, Peter, and pass me the flask. Now I 
will begin to answer you with the story of the shipwreck.” 
And he commenced an endless tale of the winds and sails 
and rocks and masts carried away, and of the English ship 
that tried to help the Spanish ship, and so forth, till at 
length the priest, whose glass Peter filled whenever his head 
was turned, fell back in his chair asleep. 

‘‘Now,” whispered Peter in English across the table to 
Castell — “now I think that we had best go to bed, for 
we have learned much from this holy spy — as I take him 
to be — and told little.” 

So they crept away quietly to their chamber, and, 
having taken the draught that the doctor had given them, 
said their prayers each in his own fashion, locked the door, 
and lay down to rest as well as their wounds and sore 
anxieties would allow them. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN 

Peter did not sleep well, for, notwithstanding all the 
barber’s dressing, his hurt pained him much. Moreover, 
he was troubled by the thought that Margaret must be 
sure that both he and her father were dead, and of the 
suffering of her sore heart. Whenever he dozed off he 
seemed to see her awake and weeping, yes, and to hear 
her sobs and murmurings of his name. When the first 
light of dawn crept through the high-barred windows he 
arose and called Castell, for they could not dress without 
each other’s help. Then they waited until they heard 
the sound of men talking and of beasts stamping in the 
courtyard without. Guessing that this was the barber 
with the mules, they unlocked their door and, finding 
the servant yawning in the passage, persuaded her to let 
them out of the house. 

The barber it was, sure enough, and with him a one- 
eyed boy, mounted on a pony, who he said would guide 
them to Granada. So they returned with him into the 
house, where he looked at their wounds, shaking his head 
over that of Peter, who, he said, ought not to travel so 
soon. After this came more haggling as to the price of 
the mules, saddlery, saddle-bags in which they packed 


THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN 


163 


their few spare clothes, hire of the guide and his horse, 
and so forth, since, anxious as they were to get away, 
they did not dare to seem to have money to spare. 

At length everything was settled, and as their host. 
Father Henriques, had not yet appeared, they determined 
to depart without bidding him farewell, leaving some 
money in acknowledgment of his hospitality and as a 
gift to his church. Whilst they were handing it over to 
the servant, however, together with a fee for herself, the 
priest joined them, unshaven, and holding his hand to 
his tonsured head whilst he explained, what was not true, 
that he had been celebrating some early Mass in the church, 
then asked whither they were going. 

They told him, and pressed their gift upon him, which 
he accepted, nothing loth, though its liberality seemed to 
make him more urgent to delay their departure. They 
were not fit to travel; the roads were most unsafe; they 
would be taken captive by the Moors, and thrown into 
a dungeon with the Christian prisoners; no one could 
enter Granada without a passport, he declared, and so 
forth, to all of which they answered that they must go. 

Now he appeared to be much disturbed, and said 
finally that they would bring him into trouble with the 
Marquis of Morelia — how or why, he would not explain, 
though Peter guessed that it might be lest the marquis 
should learn from them that this priest, his chaplain, had 
been plundering the ship which he thought sunk, and 
possessing himself of his jewels. At length, seeing that 
the man meant mischief, and would stop them in some 
fashion if they delayed, they bade him farewell hastily, 
and, pushing past him, mounted the mules that stood 
outside, and rode away with their guide. 

As they went they heard the priest, who now was in a 


164 


MARGARET 


rage, abusing the barber who had sold them the beasts, 
and caught the words “Spies,” “English senoras,” and 
“Commands of the Marquis,” so that they were very 
glad when at length they found themselves outside the 
town, where as yet few were stirring, and riding unmo- 
lested on the road to Granada. 

This road proved to be no good one, and very hilly; 
moreover, the mules were even worse than they had 
thought, that which Peter rode stumbling continually. 
Now they asked the youth, their guide, how long it would 
take them to reach Granada; but all he answered them 
was: 

^'Quien sabe?” (Who knows?) “It depends upon the 
will of God.” 

An hour later they asked him again, whereon he re- 
piled: 

Perhaps to-night, perhaps to-morrow, perhaps never, 
as there were many thieves about, and if they escaped the 
thieves they would probably be captured by the Moors. 

“I think there is one thief very near to us,” said Peter 
in English, looking at this ill-favored young man, then 
added in his broken Spanish, “Friend, if we fall in with 
robbers or Moors, the first one who dies will be yourself,” 
and he tapped the hilt of his sword. 

The lad uttered a Spanish curse, and turned the head 
of his pony round as though he would ride back to Motril, 
then changed his mind and pushed on a long way in 
front of them, nor could they come near him again for 
hours. 

So hard was the road and so feeble were the mules 
that, notwithstanding a midday halt to rest them, it was 
nightfall before they reached the top of the Sierra, and 
in the last sunset glow, separated from them by the rich 


THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN 165 

vega or plain, saw the minarets and palaces of Granada. 
Now they wished to push on, but their guide swore that 
it was impossible, as in the dark they would fall over 
precipices while descending to the plain. There was a 
venta or inn near by, he said, where they could sleep, 
starting again at dawn. 

When Castell said that they did not wish to go to an 
inn, he answered that they must, since they had eaten 
what food they had, and here on the road there was no 
fodder for the beasts. So, reluctantly enough, they con- 
sented, knowing that unless they were fed the mules 
would never carry them to Granada, whereon the guide, 
pointing out the house to them, a lonely place in a valley 
about a hundred yards from the road, said that he would 
go on to make arrangements, and gallopped off. 

As they approached this hostelry, which was surrounded 
by a rough wall for purposes of defence, they saw the 
one-eyed youth engaged in earnest conversation with a 
fat, ill-favored man who had a great knife stuck in his 
girdle. Advancing to them, bowing, this man said that 
he was the host, and, in reply to their request for food 
and a room, told them that they could have both. 

They rode into the courtyard, whereon the inn-keeper 
locked the door in the wall behind them, explaining that 
it was to keep out robbers, and adding that they were 
fortunate to be where they could sleep quite safely. Then 
a Moor came and led away their mules to the stable, and 
they accompanied the landlord into the sitting-room, a 
long, low apartment furnished with tables and benches, 
on which sat several rough-looking fellows, drinking wine. 
Here the host suddenly demanded payment in advance, 
saying that he did not trust strangers. Peter would have 
argued with him; but Castell, thinking it best to comply, 


MARGARET 


1 66 

unbuttoned his garments to get at his money, for he had 
no loose coin in his pocket, having paid away the last at 
Motril. 

His right hand being still helpless, this he did with his 
left, and so awkwardly that the small doubloon he took 
hold of slipped from his fingers and fell on to the floor. 
Forgetting that he had not refastened the belt, he bent 
down to pick it up, whereon a number of gold pieces of 
various sorts, perhaps twenty of them, fell out and rolled 
hither and thither on the ground. Peter, watching, saw 
the landlord and the other men in the room exchange a 
quick and significant glance. They rose, however, and 
assisted to find the money, which the host returned to 
Castell, remarking, with an unpleasant smile, that if he 
had known that his guests were so rich he would have 
charged them more for their accommodation. 

“Of your good heart I pray you not,” answered Castell, 
“for that is all our worldly goods,” and even as he spoke 
another gold piece, this time a large doubloon, which had 
remained in his clothing, slipped to the floor. 

“ Of course, Senor,” the host replied as he picked this 
up also and handed it back politely, “but shake yourself, 
there may still be a coin or two in your doublet.” 

Castell did so, whereon the gold in his belt, loosened 
by what had fallen out, rattled audibly, and the audience 
smiled again, while the host congratulated him on the 
fact that he was in an honest house, and not wandering 
on the mountains, which were the home of so many bad 
men. 

Having pocketed his money with the best grace he could, 
and buckled his belt beneath his robe, Castell and Peter 
sat down at a table a little apart, and asked if they could 
have some supper. The host assented, and called to the 


THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN 


167 


Moorish servant to bring food, then sat down also, and 
began to put questions to them, of a sort which showed 
that their guide had already told *all their story. 

“How did you learn of our shipwreck?” asked Castell 
by way of answer. 

“How? Why, from the people of the marquis, who 
stopped here to drink a cup of wine when he passed to 
Granada yesterday with his company and two senoras. 
He said that the San Antonio had sunk, but told us 
nothing of your being left aboard of her.” 

“Then forgive us, friend, if we, whose business is of 
no interest to you, copy his discretion, as we are weary 
and would rest.” 

“Certainly, Senors — certainly,” replied the man; “I 
go to hasten your supper, and to fetch you a flask of the 
wine of Granada worthy of your degree,” and he left 
them. 

A while later their food came — good meat enough of 
its sort — and with it the wine in an earthenware jug, 
which, as he filled their horn mugs, the host said he had 
poured out of the flask himself that the crust of it might 
not slip. 

Castell thanked him, and asked him to drink a cup to 
their good journey; but he declined, answering that it 
was a fast day with him, on which he was sworn to touch 
only water. Now Peter, who had said nothing all this 
time, but noted much, just touched the wine with his 
lips, and smacked them as though in approbation while 
he whispered in English to Castell: 

“Drink it not; it is drugged!” 

“What says your son?” asked the host. 

“He says that it is delicious, but suddenly he has re- 
membered what I too forgot, that the doctor at Motril 


MARGARET 


1 68 

forbade us to touch wine for fear lest we should worsen 
the hurts that we had in the shipwreck. Well, let it not 
be wasted. Give it to your friends. We must be content 
with thinner stuff.” And taking up a jug of water that 
stood upon the table, he filled an empty cup with it and 
drank, then passed it to Peter, while the host looked at 
them sourly. 

Then, as though by an afterthought, Castell rose and 
politely presented the jug of wine and the two filled mugs 
to the men who were sitting at a table close by, saying 
that it was a pity that they should not have the benefit 
of such fine liquor. One of these fellows, as it chanced, 
was their own guide, who had come in from tending the 
mules. They took the mugs readily enough, and two of 
them tossed off their contents, whereon, with a smothered 
oath, the landlord snatched away the jug and vanished 
with it. 

Castell and Peter went on with their meal, for they saw 
their neighbors eating of the same dish, as did the land- 
lord also, who had returned, and, it seemed to Peter, was 
watching the two men who had drunk the wine with an 
anxious eye. Presently one of these rose from the table 
and, going to a bench on the other side of the room, flung 
himself down upon it and became quite silent, while their 
one-eyed guide stretched out his arms and fell face for- 
ward so that his head rested on an empty plate, where he 
remained apparently insenBible. The host sprang up and 
stood irresolute, and Castell, rising, said that evidently 
the poor lad was sleepy after his long ride, and as they 
were the same, would he be so courteous as to show them 
to their room ? 

He assented readily, indeed it was clear that he wished 
to be rid of them, for the other men were staring at 


THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN 169 

the guide and their companion, and muttering amongst 
themselves. 

“This way, Senors,^^ he said, and led them to the end 
of the place where a broad step-ladder stood. Going up 
it, a lamp in his hand, he opened a trap-door and called 
to them to follow him, which Castell did. Peter, however, 
first turned and said good night to the company who were 
watching them, at the same moment, as though by acci- 
dent or thoughtlessly, half drawing his sword from its 
scabbard. Then he too went up the ladder, and found 
himself with the others in an attic. 

' It was a bare place, the only furniture in it being two 
chairs and two rough wooden bedsteads without heads 
to them, mere trestles indeed, that stood about three feet 
apart against a boarded partition that appeared to divide 
this room from some other attic beyond. Also there was 
a hole in the wall immediately beneath the eaves of the 
house that served the purpose of a window, over which a 
sack was nailed. 

“We are poor folk,” said the landlord as they glanced 
round this comfortless garret, “but many great people 
have slept well here, as doubtless you will also,” and he 
turned to descend the ladder. 

“It will serve,” answered Castell; “but, friend, tell 
your men to leave the stable open, as we start at dawn, 
and be so good as to give me that lamp.” 

“I cannot spare the lamp,” he grunted sulkily, with 
his foot already on the first step. 

Peter strode to him and grasped his arm with one hand, 
while with the other he seized the lamp. The man cursed, 
and began to fumble at his belt as though for a knife, 
whereon Peter, putting out his strength, twisted his arm 
so fiercely that in his pain he loosed the lamp which 


170 


MARGARET 


remained in Peter’s hand. The innkeeper made a grab 
at it, missed his footing and rolled down the ladder, 
falling heavily on the floor below. 

Watching from above, to their relief they saw him pick 
himself up, and heard him begin to revile them, shaking 
his fist and vowing vengeance. Then Peter shut down 
the trap- door. It was ill fitted, so that the edge of it 
stood up above the flooring, also the bolt that fastened 
it had been removed, although the staples in which it 
used to work remained. Peter looked round for some 
stick or piece of wood to pass through these staples, but 
could find nothing. Then he bethought him of a short 
length of cord that he had in his pocket which served to 
tie one of the saddle-bags in its place on his mule. This 
he fastened from one staple to the other, so that the trap- 
door could not be lifted more than an inch or two. 

Reflecting that this might be done, and the cord cut 
with a knife passed through the opening, he took one of 
the chairs and stood it so that two of its legs rested on 
the edge of the trap-door and the other two upon the 
boarding of the floor. Then he said to Castell : 

“We are snared birds; but they must get into the cage 
before they wring our necks. That wine was poisoned, 
and, if they can, they will murder us for our money — or 
because they have been told to do so by the guide. We 
had best keep awake to-night.” 

“I think so,” answered Castell anxiously. “Listen, 
they are talking down below.” 

Talking they were, as though they debated something, 
but after a while the sound of voices died away. When 
all was silent they hunted round the attic, but could find 
nothing that was unusual to such places. Peter looked 
at the window-hole, and, as it was large enough for a 


THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN 


171 

man to pass through, tried to drag one of the beds beneath 
it, thinking that if any such attempt were made, he who 
lay thereon would have the thief at his mercy, only to 
find, however, that these were screwed to the floor and 
immovable. As there was nothing more that they could 
do, they went and sat upon these beds, their bare swords 
in their hands, and waited a long while, but nothing hap- 
pened. 

At length the lamp, which had been flickering feebly 
for some time, went out, lacking oil, and except for the 
light which crept through the window-place, for now they 
had torn away the sacking that hung over it, they were 
in darkness. 

A little while later they heard the sound of a horse^s 
hoofs, and the door of the house open and shut, after 
which there was more talking below, and mingling with 
it a new voice which Peter seemed to remember. 

“I have it,’’ he whispered to Castell. “Here is our 
late host. Father Henriques, come to see how his guests 
are faring.” 

Another half hour and the waning moon rose, throwing 
a beam of light into their chamber; also they heard horse’s 
hoofs again. Going to the window, Peter looked out of 
it and saw the horse, a fine beast, being held by the land- 
lord, then a man came and mounted it, and at some 
remark of his turned his face upwards towards their 
window. It was that of Father Henriques. 

The two whispered together for a while till the priest 
blessed the landlord in Latin words and rode away, and 
again they heard the door of the house close. 

“He is off to Granada, to warn Morelia, his master, 
of our coming,” said Castell, as they reseated themselves 
upon the beds. 


172 


MARGARET 


“To warn Morelia that we shall never come, perhaps; 
but we will beat him yet,’^ replied Peter. 

The night wore on, and Castell, who was very weary, 
sank back upon the bolster and began to doze, when sud- 
denly the chair that was set upon the trap-door fell over 
with a great clatter, and he sprang up, asking what that 
noise might be. 

“Only a rat,” answered Peter, who saw no good in 
telling him the truth — namely, that thieves or murderers 
had tried to open the trap-door. 

Then he crept down the room and felt the cord, to find 
that it was still uncut, and replaced the chair where it 
had been. This done, Peter came back to the bed and 
threw himself down upon it as though he would slumber, 
though never was he more wide awake. The weariness 
of Castell had overcome him again, however, for he snored 
at his side. 

For a long while nothing further happened, although 
once the ray of moonlight was cut off, and for an instant 
Peter thought that he saw a face at the window. If so, 
it vanished and returned no more. Now from behind their 
heads came faint sounds, like those of stifled breathing, like 
those of naked feet; then a slight creaking and scratching 
in the wall — a mouse’s tooth might have caused it — and 
suddenly, right in that ray of moonlight, a cruel-looking 
knife and a naked arm projected through the panelling. 

The knife flickered for a second over the breast of the 
sleeping Castell as though it were a living thing that 
chose the spot where it would strike. One second — 
only one — for the next Peter had drawn himself up, and 
with a sweep of the sword that lay unscabbarded at his 
side had shorn that arm off above the elbow, just where 
it projected from the panelling. 



A CRUEL-LOOKING KNIFE AND A NAKED ARM PROJECTED 
THROUGH THE PANELLING 














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THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN 


173 

“What was that?” asked Castell again, as something 
fell upon him. 

“A snake,” answered Peter, a poisonous snake. Wake 
up now, and look.” 

Castell obeyed, staring in silence at the horrible arm 
which still clasped the great knife, while from beyond 
the panelling there came a stifled groan, then a sound as 
of a heavy body stumbling away. 

“Come,” said Peter, “let us be going, unless we would 
stop here forever. That fellow will soon be back to 
seek his arm.” 

“Going! How?” asked Castell. 

“There seems to be but one road, and that a rough 
one, through the window and over the wall,” answered 
Peter. “Ah! there they come; I thought so.” And as 
he spoke they heard the sound of men scrambling up the 
ladder. 

They ran to the window- place and looked out, but 
there seemed to be no one below, and it was not more 
than twelve feet from the ground. Peter helped Castell 
through it, then, holding his sound arm with both his own, 
lowered him as far as he could, and let go. He dropped 
on to his feet, fell to the ground, then rose again, unhurt. 
Peter was about to follow him when he heard the chair 
tumble over again, and, looking round, saw the trap-door 
open, to fall back with a crash. They had cut the cord! 

The figure of a man holding a knife appeared in the 
faint light, followed by the head of another man. Now 
it was too late for him to get through the window-place 
safely; if he attempted it he would be stabbed in the 
back. So, grasping his sword with both hands, Peter 
leapt at that man, aiming a great stroke at his shadowy 
mass. It fell upon him somewhere, for down he went 


174 


MARGARET 


and lay quite still. By now the second man had his 
knee upon the edge of flooring. Peter thrust him through, 
and he fell backwards on to the heads of others who were 
following him, sweeping the ladder with his weight, so 
that all of them tumbled in a heap at its foot, save one 
who hung to the edge of the trap frame by his hands. 
Peter slammed its door to, crushing them so that he 
loosed his grip with a howl. Then, as he had nothing 
else, he dragged the body of the dead man on to it and 
left him there. 

Next he rushed to the window, sheathing his sword as 
he ran, scrambled through it, and, hanging by his arms, 
let himself drop, coming to the ground safely, for he was 
very agile, and in the excitement of the fray forgot the 
hurt to his head and shoulder. 

“Where now?” asked Castell, as he stood by him 
panting. 

“To the stable for the mules. No, it is useless; we 
have no time to saddle them, and the outer gate is locked. 
The wall — the wall — we must climb it ! They will be 
after us in a minute.” 

They ran thither and found that, though ten feet high, 
fortunately this wall was built of rough stone, which gave 
an easy foothold. Peter scrambled up first, then, lying 
across its top, stretched down his hand to Castell, and 
with difficulty — for the man was heavy and crippled — 
dragged him to his side. Just then they heard a voice 
from their garret shout: 

“The English devils have gone! Get to the door and 
cut them off.” 

“Come on,” said Peter. So together they climbed, or 
rather fell, down the wall on to a mass of prickly-pear 
bush, which broke the shock, but tore them so sorely in 


THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN 


175 


a score of places that they could have shrieked with the 
pain. Somehow they freed themselves, and, bleeding all 
over, broke from that accursed bush, struggled up the 
bank of the ditch in which it grew, ran for the road, and 
along it towards Granada. 

Before they had gone a hundred yards they heard 
shoutings, and guessed that they were being followed. 
Just here the road crossed a ravine full of boulders and 
rough scrubby growth, whereas beyond it was bare and 
open. Peter seized Castell and dragged him up this 
ravine till they came to a place where behind a great 
stone there was a kind of hole filled with bushes and 
tall, dead grass, into which they plunged and hid them- 
selves. 

^‘Draw your sword,’’ he said to Castell. “If they find 
us, we will die as well as we can.” 

He obeyed, holding it in his left hand. 

They heard the robbers run along the road, then, 
seeing they had missed their victims, these returned again, 
five or six of them, and fell to searching the ravine. But 
the light was very bad, for here the rays of the moon did 
not penetrate, and they could find nothing. Presently 
two of them halted within five paces of them and began 
to talk, saying that the swine must still be hidden in the 
yard, or perhaps had doubled back for Motril. 

“I don’t know where they are hidden,” answered the 
other man; “but this is a poor business. Fat Pedro’s 
arm is cut clean off, and I expect he will bleed to death, 
while two of the other fellows are dead or dying, for that 
long-legged Englishman hits hard, to say nothing of those 
who drank the drugged wine, and look as though they 
would never wake. Yes, a poor business to get a few 
doubloons and please a priest, but oh! if I had the hogs 


176 


MARGARET 


here ’’ And he hissed out a horrible threat. “ Mean- 

while we had best lie up at the mouth of this place in case 
they should still be hidden here.’’ 

Peter heard him, and listened. All the other men had 
gone running back along the road. His blood was up, 
and the thorn pricks stung him sorely. Saying no word, 
out of his lair he came with that terrible sword of his 
aloft. 

The men caught sight of him, and gave a gasp of fear. 
It was the last sound that one of them ever made. 
Then the other turned and ran like a hare. It was he 
who had uttered the threat. 

“Stop!” whispered Peter, as he overtook him — “stop, 
and do what you promised.” 

The brute turned, and asked for mercy, but got none. 

“It was needful,” said Peter to Castell presently; “you 
heard — they were going to wait for us.” 

“I do not think that they will try to murder any more 
Englishmen at that inn,” panted Castell, as he ran along 
beside him. 


CHAPTER XIV 

INEZ AND HER GARDEN 

For two hours or more John Castell and Peter travelled 
on the Granada road, running when it was smooth, walk- 
ing when it was rough, and stopping from time to time 
to get their breath and listen. But the night was quite 
silent, no one seemed to be pursuing them. Evidently 
the remaining cut-throats had either taken another way 
or, having their fill of this adventure, wanted to see no 
more of Peter and his sword. 

At length the dawn broke over the great misty plain, for 
now” they were crossing the vega. Then the sun rose and 
dispelled the vapors, and a dozen miles or more away they 
saw Granada on its hill. They saw each other also, and 
a sorry sight they were, tom by the sharp thorns, and 
stained with blood from their scratches. Peter was bare- 
headed, too, for he had lost his cap, and almost beside 
himself now that the excitement had left him, from lack of 
sleep, pain, and weariness. Moreover, as the sun rose, it 
grew fearfully hot upon that plain, and its fierce rays, 
striking full upon his head, seemed to stupefy him, so 
that at last they were obliged to halt and weave a kind of 
hat out of com and grasses, which gave him so strange an 
appearance that some Moors, whom they , met going to 
12 177 


178 


MARGARET 


their toil, thought that he must be a madman, and ran 
away. 

Still they crawled forward, refreshing themselves with 
water whenever they could find any in the irrigation 
ditches that these people used for their crops, but covering 
httle more than a mile an hour. Towards noon the heat 
grew so dreadful that they were obliged to lie down to 
rest under the shade of some palm-like trees, and here, 
absolutely out- worn, they sank into a kind of sleep. 

They were awakened by a sound of voices, and staggered 
to their feet, drawing their swords, for they thought that 
the thieves from the inn had overtaken them. Instead 
of these ruffianly murderers, however, they saw before 
them a body of eight Moors, beautifully mounted upon 
white horses, and clad in turbans and flowing robes, the 
like of which Peter had never yet beheld, who sat there 
regarding them gravely with their quiet eyes, and, as it 
seemed, not without pity. 

“Put up your swords, Senors,” said the leader of these 
Moors in excellent Spanish — indeed, he seemed to be a 
Spaniard dressed in Eastern garments — “ for we are 
many, and fresh; and you are but two and wounded.” 

They obeyed, who could do nothing else. 

“Now tell us, though there is little need to ask,” went 
on the captain, “you are those men of England who 
boarded the San Antonio and escaped when she was sink- 
ing, are you not?” 

Castell nodded, then answered: 

“We boarded her to seek ” 

“Nevermind what you sought,” the captain answered; 
“the names of exalted ladies should not be mentioned 
before strange men. But you have been in trouble again 
since then, at the inn yonder, where this tall senor bore 


INEZ AND HER GARDEN 


179 


himself very bravely. Oh! we have heard all the story, 
and give him honor who can wield a sword so well in the 
dark.’’ 

‘‘We thank you,” said Castell, “but what is your busi- 
ness with us?” 

“ Senor, we are sent by our master, his Excellency, the 
high Lord and Marquis of Morelia, to find you and bring 
you to be his guests at Granada.” 

“ So the priest has told. I thought as much,” muttered 
Peter. 

“We pray you to come without trouble, as we do not 
wish to do any violence to such gallant men,” went on the 
captain. “Be pleased to mount two of these horses, and 
ride with us.” 

“I am a merchant, with friends of my own at Granada,” 
answered Castell. “Cannot we go to them, who do not 
seek the hospitality of the marquis?” 

“Senor, our orders are otherwise, and here the word of 
our master, the marquis, is a law that may not be broken.” 

“I thought that Boabdil was king of Granada,” said 
Castell. 

“Without doubt he is king, Senor, and by the grace of 
Allah will remain -so, but the marquis is allied to him in 
blood, also, while the truce lasts, he is a representative of 
their Majesties of Spain in our city,” and, at a sign, two 
of the Moors dismounted and led forward their horses, 
holding the stirrups, and offering to help them to the 
saddle. 

“There is nothing for it,” said Peter; “we must go.” 

So, awkwardly enough, for they were very stiff, they 
climbed on to the beasts and rode away with their captors. 

The sun was sinking now, for they had slept long, and 
by the time they reached the gates of Granada the muez- 


i8o 


MARGARET 


zins were calling to the sunset prayer from the minarets 
of the mosques. 

It was but a very dim and confused idea that Peter 
gathered of the great city of the Moors, as, surrounded by 
their white-robed escort, he rode he knew not whither. 
Narrow winding streets, white houses, shuttered windows, 
crowds of courteous, somewhat silent people, all men, and 
all clad in those same strange, flowing dresses, who looked 
at them curiously, and murmured words which afterwards 
he came to learn meant “Christian prisoners,’^ or some- 
times “Christian dogs”; fretted and pointed arches, and 
a vast fairy-like building set upon a hill. He was dazed 
with pain and fatigue as, a long-legged, blood-stained 
figure, crowned with his quaint hat of grasses, he rode 
through that wondrous and imperial place. 

Yet no man laughed at him, absurd as he must have 
seemed ; but perhaps this was because under the grotesque- 
ness of his appearance they recognized something of his 
quality. Or they might have heard rumors of his sword- 
play at the inn and on the ship. At any rate, their atti- 
tude was that of courteous dislike of the Christian, mingled 
with respect for the brave man in misfortune. 

At length, after mounting a long rise, they came to a 
palace on a mount, facing the vast, red-walled fortress 
which seemed to dominate the place, which he afterwards 
knew as the Alhambra, but separated from it by a valley. 
This palace was a very great building, set on three sides 
of a square, and surrounded by gardens, wherein tall 
cypress-trees pointed to the tender sky. They rode 
through the gardens and sundry gateways till they came 
to a courtyard where servants, with torches in their hands, 
ran out to meet them. Somebody helped him off his 
horse, somebody supported him up a flight of marble 


INEZ AND HER GARDEN 


i8i 


steps, beneath which a fountain splashed, into a great, cool 
room with an ornamented roof. Then Peter remembered 
no more. 

A time went by, a long, long time — in fact it was nearly 
a month — before Peter really opened his eyes to the 
world again. Not that he had been insensible for all this 
while — that is, quite — for at intervals he had become 
aware of that large, cool room, and of people talking about 
him — especially of a dark-eyed, light-footed, and pretty 
woman with a white wimple round her face, who appeared 
to be in charge of him. Occasionally he thought that 
this must be Margaret, and yet knew that it was not, for 
she was different. Also, he remembered that once or 
twice he had seemed to see the haughty, handsome face of 
Morelia bending over him, as though he watched curiously 
to learn whether he would live or not, and then had striven 
to rise to fight him, and been pressed back by the soft, 
white hands of the woman that yet were so terribly strong. 

Now, when he awoke at last, it was to see her sitting 
there with a ray of sunlight from some upper window 
falling on her face, sitting with her chin resting on her 
hand and her elbow on her knee, and contemplating him 
with a pretty, puzzled look. She made a sweet picture 
thus, he thought. Then he spoke to her in his slow 
Spanish, for somehow he knew that she would not under- 
stand his own tongue. 

‘‘You are not Margaret,’^ he said. 

At once the dream went out of the woman’s soft eyes; 
she became intensely interested, and, rising, advanced 
towards him, a very gracious figure, who seemed to sway 
as she walked. 

“No, no,” she said, bending over him and touching 


i 82 


MARGARET 


his forehead with her taper fingers; “my name is Inez. 
You wander still, Senor.’’ 

“Inez what?” he asked. 

“Inez only,” she answered, “Inez, a woman of Granada, 
the rest is lost. Inez, the nurse of sick men, Senor.” 

“Where then is Margaret — the English Margaret?” 

A veil of secrecy seemed to fall over the woman’s face, 
and her voice changed as she answered, no longer ringing 
true, or so it struck his senses made quick and subtle by 
the fires of fever: 

“I know no English Margaret. Do you then love her 
— this English Margaret?” 

“Aye,” he answered, “she was stolen from me; I have 
followed her from far, and suffered much. Is she dead 
or living?” 

“I have told you, Senor, I know nothing, although” — 
and again the voice became natural — “it is true that I 
thought you loved somebody from your talk in your 
illness.” 

Peter pondered a while, then he began to remember, 
and asked again : 

“Where is Castell?” 

“Castell? Was he your companion, the man who 
looked like a Jew, with a hurt arm ? I do not know where 
he is. In another part of the city, perhaps. I think that 
he was sent to his friends. Question me not of such 
matters, who am but your sick-nurse. You have been 
very ill, Senor. Look!” And she handed him a little 
mirror made of polished silver, then, seeing that he was 
too weak to take it, held it before him. 

Peter saw his face, and groaned, for, except the red 
scar upon his cheek, it was ivory white and wasted to 
nothing. 



“MY NAME IS INEZ. YOU WANDER STILL, SENOR” 











INEZ AND HER GARDEN 


183 

“I am glad Margaret did not see me like this,” he said, 
with an attempt at a smile, “bearded too, and what a 
beard! Lady, how could you have nursed one so hid- 
eous?” 

“I have not found you hideous,” she answered softly; 
“besides, that is my trade. But you must not talk^; you 
must rest. Drink this, and rest,” and she gave him soup 
in a silver bowl, which he swallowed readily enough, and 
went to sleep again. 

Some days afterwards, when Peter was well on the road 
to convalescence, his beautiful nurse came and sat by him, 
a look of pity in her tender. Eastern eyes. 

“What is it now, Inez?” he asked, noting her changed 
face. 

“ Sehor Pedro, you spoke to me a while ago, when you 
woke up from your long sleep, of a certain Margaret, did 
you not? Well, I have been inquiring of this Dona 
Margaret, and have no good news to tell of her.” 

Peter set his teeth, and said : 

“ Go on, tell me the worst.” 

“This Margaret was travelling with the Marquis of 
Morelia, was she not?” 

“She had been stolen by him,” answered Peter. 

“Alas! it may be so; but here in Spain, and especially 
here in Granada, that will scarcely screen the name of one 
who has been known to travel with the Marquis of Morelia. 

“So much the worse for the Marquis of Morelia when 
I meet him again,” answered Peter sternly. “ What is 
your story. Nurse Inez?” 

She looked with interest at his grim, thin face, but, as it 
seemed to him, with no displeasure. 

“A sad one.' As I have told you, a sad one. It seems 
that the other day this senora was found dead at the 


184 


MARGARET 


foot of the tallest tower of the marquis’s palace, though 
whether she fell from it, or was thrown from it, none 
know.” 

Peter gasped, and was silent for a while; then asked: 

“ Did you see her dead ?” 

“No, Senor; others saw her.” 

“ And told you to tell me ? Nurse Inez, I do not believe 
your tale. If the Dona Margaret, my betrothed, were 
dead I should know it; but my heart tells me that she is 
alive.” 

“You have great faith, Senor,” said the woman, with 
a note of admiration in her voice which she could not 
suppress, but, as he observed, without contradicting 
him. 

“I have faith,” he answered. “Nothing else is left; 
but so far it has been a good crutch.” 

Peter made no further allusion to the subject, only 
presently he asked: 

“Tell me, where am I?” 

“In a prison, Senor.” 

“Oh! a prison, with a beautiful woman for jailer, and 
other beautiful women” — and he pointed to a fair 
creature who had brought something into the room — 
“as servants. A very fine prison also,” and he looked 
about him at the marbles and arches and lovely carving. 

“There are men without the gate, not women,” she 
replied, smiling. 

“I daresay; captives can be tied with ropes of silk, can 
they not? Well, whose is this prison?” 

She shook her head. 

“I do not know, Senor. The Moorish king’s perhaps 
— you yourself have said that I am only the jailer.” 

“Then who pays you ?” 


INEZ AND HER GARDEN 


185 


“Perhaps I am not paid, Senor; perhaps I work for 
love,” and she glanced at him swiftly, “or hate,” and her 
face changed. 

“Not hate of me, I think,” said Peter. 

“No, Senor, not hate of you. Why should I hate you 
who have been so helpless and so courteous to me?” and 
she bent the knee to him a little. 

“Why indeed? especially as I am also grateful to you 
who have nursed me back to life. But then, why hide 
the truth from a helpless man?” 

Inez glanced about her; the room was empty now. She 
bent over him and whispered: 

“Have you never been forced to hide the truth? No, 
I read it in your face,, and you are not a woman — an 
erring woman.” 

They looked into each other^s eyes a while, then Peter 
asked : 

“Is the Dona Margaret really dead?” 

“I do not know,” she answered; “I was told so.” And 
as though she feared lest she should betray herself, Inez 
turned and left him quickly. 

The days went by, and through the slow degrees of con- 
valescence Peter grew strong again. But they brought 
him no added knowledge. He did not know where he 
dwelt or why he was there. All he knew was that he 
lived a prisoner in a sumptuous palace, or as he suspected, 
for of this he could not be sure, since the arched windows 
of one side of the building were walled up, in the wing of a 
palace. Nobody came near to him except the fair Inez, 
and a Moor who either was deaf or could understand 
nothing that he said to him in Spanish. There were other 
women about, it is true, very pretty women all of themy 


MARGARET 


1 86 

who acted as servants, but none of these were allowed to 
approach him ; he only saw them at a distance. 

Therefore Inez was his sole companion, and with her 
he grew very intimate, to a certain extent, but no further. 
On the occasion that has been described she had lifted a 
comer of the veil which hid her tme self, but a long while 
passed before she enlarged her confidence. The veil was 
kept down very close indeed. Day by day he questioned 
her, and day by day, without the slightest show of irrita- 
tion, or even annoyance, she parried his questions. They 
knew perfectly well that they were matching their wits 
against each other; but as yet Inez had the best of the 
game, which, indeed, she seemed to enjoy. He would 
talk to her also of all sorts of things — the state of Spain, 
the Moorish court, the danger that threatened Granada, 
whereof the great siege now drew near, and so forth — 
and of these matters she would discourse most intelli- 
gently, with the result that he learned much of the state 
of politics in Castile and Granada, and greatly improved 
his knowledge of the Spanish tongue. 

But when of a sudden, as he did again and again, he 
sprang some question on her about Morelia, or Margaret, 
or John Castell, that same subtle change would come 
over her face, and the same silence would seal her lips. 

“Senor,” she said to him one day with a laugh, “you 
ask me of secrets which I might reveal to you — perhaps 
— if you were my husband or my love, but which you can- 
not expect a nurse, whose life hangs on it, to answer. Not 
that I wish you to become my husband or my lover,” she 
added, with a little nervous laugh. 

Peter looked at her with his grave eyes. 

“I know that you do not wish that,” he said, “for how 
could I attract one s6 gay and beautiful as you are?” 


INEZ AND HER GARDEN 187 

“You seem to attract the English Margaret,” she re- 
plied quickly in a nettled voice. 

“To have attracted, you mean, as you tell me that she 
is dead,” he answered; and, seeing her mistake, Inez bit 
her lip. “But,” he went on, “I was going to add, though 
it may have no value for you, that you have attracted me 
as your true friend.” 

“Friend!” she said opening her large eyes, “what talk 
is this ? Can the woman Inez find a friend in a man who 
is under sixty?” 

“It would appear so,” he answered. And again with 
that graceful little curtsey of hers she went away, leaving 
him much puzzled. 

Two days later she appeared in his room, evidently 
much disturbed. 

“I thought that you had left me altogether, and I am 
glad to see you, for I tire of that deaf Moor and of this fine 
room. I want fresh air.” 

“I know it,” she answered, “so I have come to take 
you to walk in a garden.” 

He leapt for joy at her words, and snatching at his sword, 
which had been left to him, buckled it on. 

“You will not need that,” she said. 

“ I thought that I should not need it in yonder inn, but 
I did,” he answered. Whereat she laughed, then turned, 
put her hand upon his shoulder and spoke to him earnestly. 

“See, friend,” she whispered, “you want to walk in the 
fresh air — do you not ? — and to learn certain things — 
and I wish to tell you them. But I dare not do it here, 
where we may at any moment be surrounded by spies, for 
these walls have ears indeed. Well, when we walk in that 
garden, would it be too great a penance for you to put your 
arm about my waist — you who still need support?” 


i88 


MARGARET 


“No penance at all, I assure you,’^ answered Peter with 
something like a smile. For after all he was a man, and 
young; while the waist of Inez was as pretty as all the rest 
of her. “But,” he added, “it might be misunderstood.” 

“Quite so, I wish it to be misunderstood, not by me, 
who know that you care nothing for me, and would as 
soon place your arm round that marble column.” 

Peter opened his lips to speak, but she stopped him at 
once. 

“Oh! do not waste falsehoods on me, in which of a 
truth you have no art,” she said with evident irritation. 
“Why, if you had the money you would offer to pay me 
for my nursing, and who knows, I might take it! Under- 
stand, you must either do this, seeming to play the lover 
to me, or we cannot walk together in that garden.” 

Peter hesitated a little, guessing a plot, while she bent 
forward till her lips almost touched his ear, and said in a 
still lower voice : 

“And I cannot tell you how, perhaps — I say perhaps 
— you may come to see the remains of the Dona Margaret, 
and certain other matters. Ah!” she added after a pause, 
with a little bitter laugh, “now you will kiss me from one 
end of the garden to the other, will you not? Foolish 
man! Doubt no more; take your chance, it may be the 
last.” 

“Of what? Kissing you? Or the other things?” 

“That you will find out,” she said, with a shrug of her 
shoulders. “ Come ! ” 

Then, while he followed dubiously, she led him down 
the length of the great room to a door with a spy-hole in 
the top of it, that was set in a Moorish archway at the 
comer. 

This door she opened, and there beyond it, a drawn 


INEZ AND HER GARDEN 


189 

scimitar in his hand, stood a tall Moor on guard. Inez 
spoke a word to him, whereon he saluted with his scimitar 
and let them pass across the landing to a turret stair that 
lay beyond, which they descended. At its foot was an- 
other door, whereon she knocked four times. Bolts shot 
back, keys turned, and it was opened by a black porter, 
beyond whom stood a second Moor, also with drawn 
sword. They passed him as they had passed the first, 
turned down a little passage to the right, ending in some 
steps, and came to a third door, in front of which she 
halted. 

‘‘Now,” she said, “nerve yourself for the trial.” 

“What trial?” he asked, supporting himself against the 
wall, for he found his legs still weak.” 

“This,” she answered, pointing to her waist, “and 
these,” and she touched her rich, red lips with her taper 
finger-points. “Would you like to practise a little, my 
innocent English knight, before we go out? You look as 
though you might seem awkward and unconvincing.” 

“ I think,” answered Peter drily, for the humor of the 
situation moved him, “that such practice is somewhat 
dangerous for me. It might annoy you before I had done. 
I will postpone my happiness until we are in the garden.” 

“I thought so,” she answered; “but look now, you must 
play the part, or I shall suffer, who am bearing much for 
you.” 

“I think that I may suffer also,” he murmured, but not 
so low that she did not catch his words. 

“No, friend Pedro,” she said, turning on him, “it is the 
woman who suffers in this kind of farce. She pays; the 
man rides away to play another,” and without more ado 
she opened the door, which proved to be unlocked and 
unguarded. 


MARGARET 


190 

Beyond the foot of some steps lay a most lovely garden. 
Great, tapering cypresses grew about it, with many orange- 
trees and flowering shrubs that filled the soft, southern 
air with odors. Also there were marble fountains into 
which water splashed from the mouths of carven lions, 
and here and there arbors with stone seats, whereon were 
laid soft cushions of many colors. It was a veritable place 
of Eastern delight and dreams, such as Peter had never 
known before as he looked upon it on that languorous eve, 
he who had not seen the sky or flowers for so many weary 
weeks of sickness. It was secluded also, being surrounded 
by a high wall, but at one place the tall windowless tower 
of some other building of red stone soared up between and 
beyond two lofty cypress-trees. 

“This is the harem garden,” Inez whispered, “where 
many a painted favorite has flitted for a few happy, summer 
hours, till winter came and the butterfly was broken,” and 
as she spoke she dropped her veil over her face and began 
to descend the stairs. 


CHAPTER XV 


PETER PLAYS A PART 

“Stop,” said Peter, from the shadow of the doorway. 
“I fear this business, Inez, and I do not understand why 
it is needful. Why cannot you say what you have to say 
here?” 

“Are you mad?” she answered almost fiercely through 
her veil. “Do you think that it can be any pleasure for 
me to seem to make love to a stone shaped like a man, for 
whom I care nothing at all — except as a friend,” she 
added quickly. “I tell you, Senor Peter, that if you do 
not do as I tell you, you will never hear what I have to 
say, for I shall be held to have failed in my business, and 
within a few minutes shall vanish from you for ever — 
to my death perhaps; but what does that matter to you? 
Choose now, and quickly, for I cannot stand thus for long.” 

“I obey you, God forgive me!” said the distraught 
Peter from the darkness of the doorway; “but must I 
really ?” 

“Yes, you must,” she answered with energy, and some 
would not think that so great a penance.” 

Then she lifted the corner of her veil coyly and, peeping 
out beneath it, called in a soft, clear voice, “Oh! forgive 
me, dear friend, if I have run too fast for you, forgetting 


192 


MARGARET 


that you are still so very weak. Here, lean upon me; I 
am frail, but it may serve.” And she passed up the steps 
again, to reappear in another moment with Peter’s hand 
resting on her shoulder. 

“Be careful of these steps,” she said, “they are so 
slippery” — a statement to which Peter, whose pale face 
had grown suddenly red, murmured a hearty assent. 
“Do not be afraid,” she went on in her flute-like' voice; 
“this is the secret garden, where none can hear words, 
however sweet, and none can see even a caress, no, not the 
most jealous woman. That is why in old days it was 
called the Sultana’s Chamber, for there at the end of it 
was where she bathed in the summer season. What say 
you of spies ? Oh ! yes, in the palace there are many, but 
to look towards this place, even for the Guardian of the 
Women, was always death. Here there are no witnesses, 
save the flowers. and the birds.” 

As she spoke thus they reached the central path, and 
passed up it slowly, Peter’s hand still upon the shoulder 
of Inez, and her white arm about him, while she looked 
up into his eyes. 

“Bend closer over me,” she whispered, “for truly your 
face is like that of a wooden saint,” and he bent. “ Now,” 
she went on, “listen. Your lady lives, and is well — kiss 
me on the lips, please, that news is worth it. If you shut 
your eyes you can imagine that I am she.” 

Again Peter obeyed, and with a better grace than might 
have been expected. 

“She is a prisoner in this same palace,” she went on, 
“and the marquis, who is mad for love of her, seeks by all 
means, fair or foul, to make her his wife.” 

“Curse him!” exclaimed Peter with another embrace. 

“Till a few days ago she thought you dead; but now 


PETER PLAYS A PART 


193 


she knows that you are alive and recovering. Her father, 
Castell, escaped from the place where he was put, and is in 
hiding among his friends, the Jews, where even Morelia 
cannot find him; indeed, he believes him fled from the city. 
But he is not fled, and, having much gold, has opened a 
door between himself and his daughter.” 

Here she stopped to return the embrace with much 
warmth. Then they passed under some trees, and came 
to the marble baths where the sultanas were supposed to 
have bathed in summer, for this place had been one of 
the palaces of the Kings of Granada before they lived in 
the Alhambra. Here Inez sat down upon a seat and 
loosened some garment about her throat, for the evening 
was very hot. 

“What are you doing?” Peter asked doubtfully, for he 
was filled with many fears. 

“Cooling myself,” she answered; “your arm was warm, 
and we may sit here for a few minutes.” 

“Well, go on with your tale,” he said. 

“ I have little more to say, friend, except that if you wish 
to send any message, I might perhaps be able to take it.” 

“You are an angel,” he exclaimed. 

“That is another word for messenger, is it not? Con- 
tinue.” 

“Tell her — that if she hears anything of all this busi- 
ness, it isn’t true.” 

“ On that point she may form her own opinion,” replied 
Inez, demurely. “If I were in her place I know what 
mine would be. Don’t waste time; we must soon begin 
to walk again.” 

Peter stared at her, for he could understand nothing of 
all this play. Apparently she read his look, for she 
answered it in a quiet, serious voice: 

13 


194 


MARGARET 


“You are wondering what everything means, and why 
I am doing what I do. I will tell you, Senor, and you can 
believe me or not as you like. Perhaps you think that I 
am in love with you. It would not be wonderful, would 
it? Besides in the old tales that always happens — the 
lady who nurses the Christian knight and worships him 
and so forth.” 

“I don’t think anything of the sort; I am not so vain.” 

“I know it, Senor, you are too good a man to be vain. 
Well, I do all these things, not for love of you, or any one, 
but for hate — for hate. Yes, for hate of Morelia,” and 
she clenched her little hand, hissing the words out between 
her teeth. 

“I understand the feeling,” said Peter. “But — but 
what has he done to you? ” 

“Do not ask me, Senor. Enough that once I loved 
him — that accursed priest Henriques sold me into his 
power — oh ! a long while ago, and he ruined me, making 
me what I am, and — I bore his child, and — and it is 
dead. Oh! Mother of God, my boy is dead, and since 
then I have been an outcast and his slave — they have 
slaves here in Granada, Senor — dependent on him for 
my bread, forced to do his bidding, forced to wait upon 
his other loves; I, who once was the sultana; I of whom he 
has wearied. Only to-day — but why should I tell you 
of it? Well, he has driven me even to this, that I must 
kiss an unwilling stranger in a garden,” and she sobbed 
aloud. 

“Poor girl! — poor girl!” said Peter, patting her hand 
kindly with his thin fingers. “Henceforth I have another 
score against Morelia, and I will pay it too.” 

“Will you?” she asked quickly. “Ah! if so, I would 
die for you, who now live only to be revenged upon him. 


PETER PLAYS A PART 


195 


And it shall be my first vengeance to rob him of that noble- 
looking mistress of yours, whom he has stolen away and 
has set his heart upon wholly, because she is the first 
woman who ever resisted him — him, who thinks that he 
is invincible.” 

“Have you any plan?” asked Peter. 

“As yet, none. The thing is very difficult. I go in 
danger of my life, for if he thought that I betrayed him he 
would kill me like a rat, and think no harm of it. Such 
things can be done in Granada without sin, Senor, and 
no questions asked — at least if the victim be a woman 
of the murderer’s household. I have told you already 
that if I had refused to do what I have done this evening 
I should certainly have been got rid of in this way or that, 
and another set on at the work. No, I have no plan yet, 
only it is I through whom the Senor Castell communicates 
with his daughter, and I will see him again, and see her, 
and we will make some plan. No, do not thank me. 
He pays me for my services, and I am glad to take his 
money, who hope to escape from this hell and live on it 
elsewhere. Yet, not for all the money in the world would 
I risk what I am risking, though in truth it matters not to 
me whether I live or die. Senor, I will not disguise it 
from you, all this scene will come to the Dona Margaret’s 
ears, but I will explain it to her.” 

“I pray you, do,” said Peter earnestly — “explain it 
fully.” 

“I will — I will. I will work for you and her and her 
father, and if I cease to work, know that I am dead or in a 
dungeon, and fend for yourselves as best you may. One 
thing I can tell you for your comfort — no harm has been 
done to this lady of yours. Morelia loves her too well for 
that. He wishes to make her his wife. Or perhaps he 


MARGARET 


196 

has sworn some oath, as I know that he has sworn that he 
will not murder you — which he might have done a score 
of times while you have lain a prisoner in his power. 
Why, once when you were senseless he came and stood 
over you, a dagger in his hand, and reasoned out the case 
with me. I said, ‘Why do you not kill him?’ knowing 
that thus I could best help to save your life. He answered, 
‘Because I will not take my wife with her lover’s blood 
upon my hands, unless I slay him in fair fight. I swore 
it yonder in London. It was the offering that I made to 
God and to my patron saint that so I might win her fairly, 
and if I break that oath God will be avenged upon me 
here and hereafter. Do my bidding, Inez. Nurse him 
well, so that if he dies, he dies without sin of mine.’ No, 
he will not murder you or harm her. Friend Pedro, he 
dare not.” 

“Can you think of nothing?” asked Peter. 

“Nothing — as yet nothing. These walls are high, 
guards watch them day and night, and outside is the great 
city of Granada where Morelia has much power, and 
whence no Christian may escape. But he would marry 
her. And there is that handsome fool-woman, her ser- 
vant, who is in love with him — oh ! she told me all about 
it in the worst Spanish I ever heard, but the story is too 
long to repeat; and the priest. Father Henriques, he who 
wished that you might be killed at the inn — and who 
loves money so much. Ah! now I think I see some light. 
But we have no more time to talk, and I must have time 
to think. Friend Pedro, make ready your kisses, we must 
go on with our game, and, in truth, you play but badly. 
Come, now, your arm. There is a seat prepared for us 
yonder. Smile and look loving. I have not art enough 
for both. Come! — come!” And together they walked 


PETER PLAYS A PART 


197 


out of the dense shadow of the trees and past the 
marble bath of the sultanas to a certain seat beneath 
a bower on which were cushions, and lying among them 
a lute. 

“Seat yourself at my feet,” she said, as she sank on to 
the bench. “Can you sing?” 

“No more than a crow,” he answered. 

“Then I must sing to you. Well, it will be better 
than the love-making.” Then in a very sweet voice 
she began to warble amorous Moorish ditties that she 
accompanied upon the lute, whilst Peter, who was 
weary in body and disturbed in mind, played a lover^s 
part to the best of his ability, and by degrees the dark- 
ness gathered. 

At length, when they could no longer see across the 
garden, Inez ceased singing and rose with a sigh. 

“The play is finished and the curtain down,” she said; 
“also it is time that you went in out of this damp. Senor 
Pedro, you are a very bad actor; but let us pray that the 
audience was compassionate, and took the will for the 
deed.” 

“I did not see any audience,” answered Peter. 

“ But it saw you, as I daresay you will find out by-and- 
by. Follow me now back to your room, for I must be 
going about your business — and my own. Have you 
any message for the Senor Castell?” 

“None, save my love and duty. Tell him that, thanks 
to you, although still somewhat feeble, I am recovered of 
my hurt upon the ship, and the fever which I took from 
the sun, and that if he can make any plan to get us all out 
of this accursed city and the grip of Morelia I will bless 
his name and yours.” 

“Good, I will not forget. Now be silent. To-morrow 


198 


MARGARET 


we will walk here again, but be not afraid, then there will 
be no more need for love-making.^’ 

Margaret sat by the open window-place of her beautiful 
chamber in Morelia’s palace. She was splendidly ar- 
rayed in a rich, Spanish dress, whereof the collar was stiff 
with pearls, she who must wear what it pleased her captor 
to give her. Her long tresses, fastened with a jewelled 
band, flowed down about her shoulders, and, her hand 
resting on her knee, from her high tower prison she gazed 
out across the valley at the dim and mighty mass of the 
Alhambra and the ten thousand lights of Granada which 
sparkled far below. Near to her, seated beneath a silver 
hanging-lamp, and also clad in rich array, was Betty. 

“What is it. Cousin?” asked the girl, looking at her 
anxiously. “At least you should be happier than you 
were, for now you know that Peter is not dead, but almost 
recovered from his sickness and in this very palace; also, 
that your father is well and hidden away, plotting for our 
escape. Why, then, are you so sad, who should be more 
joyful than you were?” 

“Would you learn, Betty? Then I will tell you. I 
am betrayed. • Peter Brome, the man whom I looked 
upon almost as my husband, is false to me.” 

“Master Peter false!” exclaimed Betty, staring at her 
open-mouthed. “No, it is not possible. I know him; 
he could not be, who will not even look at another woman, 
if that is what you mean.” 

“You say so. Then, Betty, listen and judge. You 
remember this afternoon, when the marquis took us to 
see the wonders of this palace, and I went thinking that 
perhaps I might find some path by which afterwards we 
could escape?” 


PETER PLAYS A PART 


199 

“Of course I remember, Margaret. We do not leave 
this cage so often that I am likely to forget.’^ 

“Then you will remember also that high- walled garden 
in which we walked, where the great tower is, and how the 
marquis and that hateful priest Father Henriques ‘and I 
went up the tower to study the prospect from its roof, I 
thinking that you were following me.” 

“The waiting- women would not let me,” said Betty. 
“So soon as you had passed in they shut the door and 
told me to bide where I was till you returned. I went 
near to pulling the hair out of the head of one of them 
over it, since I was afraid for you alone with those two 
men. But she drew her knife, the cat, and I had none.” 

“You must be careful, Betty,” said Margaret, “lest 
some of these heathen folk should do you a mischief.” 

“Not they,” she answered; “they are afraid of me. 
Why, the other day I bundled one of them, whom I found 
listening at the door, head first down the stairs. She 
complained to the marquis, but he only laughed at her, 
and now she lies abed with a plaster on her nose. But 
tell me your tale.” 

“We climbed the tower,” said Margaret, “and from its 
topmost room looked out through the windows that face 
south at all the mountains and the plain over which they 
dragged us from Motril. Presently, the priest, who had 
gone to the north wall, in which there are no windows, 
and entered some recess there, came out with an evil smile 
upon his face, and whispered something to the marquis, 
who turned to me and said: 

“‘The father tells me of an even prettier scene which 
we can view yonder. Come, Senora, and look.’ 

“So I went, who wished to learn all that I could of the 
building. They led me into a little chamber cut in the 


200 


MARGARET 


thickness of the stone- work, in the wall of which are slits 
like loop-holes for the shooting of arrows, wide within, 
but very narrow without, so that I think they cannot be 
seen from below, hidden as they are between the rough 
stones of the tower. 

“‘This is the place, ^ said the marquis, ‘where in the 
old days the kings of Granada, who were always jealous, 
used to sit to watch their women in the secret garden. It 
is told that thus one of them discovered his sultana making 
love to an astrologer, and drowned them both in the 
marble bath at the end of the garden. Look, now, be- 
neath us walk a couple who do not guess that we are the 
witnesses of their vows.^ 

“So I looked idly enough to pass the time, and there I 
saw a tall man in a Moorish dress, and with him, for their 
arms were about each other, a woman. As I was turning 
my head away, who did not wish to spy upon them thus, 
the woman lifted her face to kiss the man, and I knew her 
for that beautiful Inez who has visited us here at times, 
as a spy I think. Presently, too, the man, after paying 
her back her embrace, glanced about him guiltily, and I 
saw his face also, and knew it.” 

“Who was it?” asked Betty, for this gossip of lovers 
interested her. 

“Peter Brome, no other,” Margaret answered calmly, 
but with a note of despair in her voice. “Peter Brome, 
pale with recent sickness, but no other man.” 

“The saints save us ! I did not think he had it in him ! ’ ’ 
gasped Betty, with astonishment. 

“They would not let me go,” went on Margaret; “they 
forced me to see it all. The pair tarried for a while be- 
neath some trees by the bath and were hidden there. 
Then they came out again and sat them down upon a 


PETER PLAYS A PART 


201 


marble seat, while the woman sang songs and the man 
leaned against her lovingly. So it went on until the dark- 
ness fell, and we went, leaving them there. Now,” she 
added, with a little sob, “what say you?” 

“I say,” answered Betty, “that it was not Master Peter, 
who has no liking for strange ladies and secret gardens.” 

“It was he, and no other man, Betty.” 

“Then cousin, he was drugged or drunk or bewitched, 
not the Peter whom we know.” 

“Bewitched, perchance, by that bad woman, which is no 
excuse for him.” 

Betty thought a while. She could not doubt the evi- 
dence, but from her face it was clear that she took no 
severe view of the offence. 

“Well, at the worst,” she said, “men, as I have known 
them, are men. He has been shut up for a long while 
with that minx, who is very fair and witching, and it was 
scarcely right to watch him through a slit in a tower. If 
he were my lover, I should say nothing about it.” 

“I will say nothing to him about that or any other 
matter,” replied Margaret sternly. “I have done with 
Peter Brome.” 

Again Betty thought, and spoke. 

“I seem to see a trick. Cousin Margaret, they told you 
he was dead, did they not ? And then that news came to 
us that he was not dead, only sick, and here. So the lie 
failed. Now they tell you, and seem to show you, that he 
is faithless. May not all this have been some part played 
for a purpose by the woman?” 

“It takes two to play such parts, Betty. If you had 
seen ” 

“If I had seen I should have known whether it was but 
a part or love made in good earnest; but you are too 


202 


MARGARET 


innocent to judge. What said the marquis all this while, 
and the priest?’^ 

“Little or nothing, only smiled at each other, and at 
length, when it grew dark and we could see no more, asked 
me if I did not think that it was time to go — me! whom 
they had kept there all that while to be the witness of my 
own shame.” 

“Yes, they kept you there — did they not? — and 
brought you there just at the right time — did they not ? 
— and shut me out of the tower so that I might not be 
with you — oh! and all the rest. Now, if you have any 
justice in you, Cousin, you will hear Peter’s side of this 
story before you judge him.” 

“I have judged him,” answered Margaret coldly, “and, 
oh! I wish that I were dead.” 

Margaret rose from her seat and, stepping to the win- 
dow-place in the tower which was built upon the edge of a 
hill, searched the giddy depth beneath with her eyes, 
where, two hundred feet below, the white line of a road- 
way showed faintly in the moonlight. 

“It would be easy, would it not,” she said, with a 
strained laugh, just to lean out a little too far upon this 
stone, and then one swift rush and darkness — or light — 
forever — which, I wonder?” 

“Light, I think,” said Betty, jerking her back from the 
window — “the light of hell fire, and plenty of it, for that 
would be self-murder, nothing else, and besides, what 
would one look like on that road? Cousin, don’t be a 
fool. If you are right, it isn’t you who ought to go out of 
that window; and if you are wrong, then you would only 
make a bad business worse. Time enough to die when 
one must, say I — which, perhaps, will be soon enough. 
Meanwhile, if I were you, I would try to speak to Master 


PETER PLAYS A PART 


203 


Peter first, if only to let him know what I thought of 
him.” 

“Mayhap,” answered Margaret, sinking back into a 
chair, “but I suffer — how can you know what I suffer?” 

“Why should I not know?” asked Betty. “Are you 
the only woman in the world who has been fool enough 
to fall in love ? Can I not be as much in love as you are ? 
You smile, and think to yourself that the poor relation, 
Betty, cannot feel like her rich cousin. But I do — I do. 
I know that he is a villain, but I love this marquis as much 
as you hate him, or as much as you love Peter, because I 
can’t help myself; it is my luck, that’s all. But I am not 
going to throw myself out of a window; I would rather 
throw him out and square our reckoning, and that I swear 
I’ll do, in this way or the other, even if it should cost me 
what I don’t want to lose — my life.” And Betty drew 
herself up beneath the silver lamp with a look upon her 
handsome, determined face, which was so like Margaret’s 
and yet so different, that, could he have seen it, might 
well have made Morelia regret that he had chosen this 
woman for a tool. 

While Margaret studied her wonderingly she heard a 
sound, and glanced up, to see, standing before them, none 
other than the beautiful Spaniard, or Moor, for she knew 
not which she was, Inez, that same woman whom, from 
her hiding-place in the tower, she had watched with Peter 
in the garden. 

“How did you come here?” she asked coldly. 

“Through the door, Senora, that was left unlocked, 
which is not wise of those who wish to talk privately in 
such a place as this,” she answered with a humble curtsey. 

“The door is still unlocked,” said Margaret, pointing 
towards it. 


204 


MARGARET 


“Nay, Senora, you are mistaken; here is its key in my 
hand. I pray you do not tell your lady to put me out, 
which, being so strong, she well can do, for I have words 
to say to you, and if you are wise you will listen to them.’’ 

Margaret thought a moment, then answered : 

“Say on, and be brief.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


BETTY SHOWS HER TEETH 

“Senora/’ said Inez, “you think that you have some- 
thing against me.” 

“No,” answered Margaret, “you are — what you are; 
why should I blame you?” 

“Well, against the Senor Brome then?” 

“ Perhaps, but that is between me and him. I will not 
discuss it with you.” 

“Senora,” went on Inez, with a slow smile, “we are 
both innocent of what you thought you saw.” 

“Indeed, then who is guilty?” 

“The Marquis of Morelia.” 

Margaret made no answer, but her eyes said much. 

“Senora, you do not believe me, nor is it wonderful. 
Yet I speak the truth. What you saw from the tower 
was a play in which the Senor Brome took his part badly 
endugh, as you may have noticed, because I told him that 
my Hfe hung on it. I have nursed him through a sore 
sickness, Senora, and he is not ungrateful.” 

“So I judged; but I do not understand you.” 

“Senora, I am a slave in this house, a discarded slave. 
Perhaps you can guess the rest, it is a common story 
here. I was offered my freedom at a price, that I should 

205 


2o6 


MARGARET 


weave myself into this man’s heart, I who am held fair, 
and make him my lover. If I failed, then perhaps I 
should be sold as a slave — perhaps worse. I accepted 
— why should I not ? It was a small thing to me. On 
the one hand, life, freedom, and wealth, an hidalgo of 
good blood and a friend for a little while, and, on the 
other, the last shame or blackness which doubtless await 
me now — if I am found out. Senora, I failed, who in 
truth did not try hard to succeed. The man looked on 
me as his nurse, no more, and to me he was one very sick, 
no more. Also, we grew to be friends, and in this way 
or in that I learned all his story, learned also why the 
trap was baited thus — that you might be deceived and 
fall into a deeper trap. Senora, I could n^t explain it all 
to him, indeed in that chamber where we were spied on, 
I had but little chance. Still, it was necessary that he 
should seem to be what he is not, so I took him into the 
garden and, knowing well who watched us, made him act 
his part, well enough to deceive you it would seem.” 

“Still I do not understand,” said Margaret more softly. 
“You say that your life or welfare hung on this shameful 
business. Then why do you reveal it to me now?” 

“To save you from yourself, Senora, to save my friend 
the Senor Brome, and to pay back Morelia in his own 
coin.” 

“How will you do these things?” 

“The first two are done, I think, but the third is diffi- 
cult. It is of that I come to speak with you, at great 
risk. Indeed, had not my master been summoned to the 
court of the Moorish king I could not have come, and he 
may return at any time.” 

“Have you some plan?” asked Margaret, leaning 
towards her eagerly. 


BETTY SHOWS HER TEETH 


207 


“ No plan as yet, only an idea.’’ She turned and looked 
at Betty, adding, “This lady is your cousin, is she not, 
though of a different station, and somewhat far away?” 

Margaret nodded. 

“You are not unlike,” went on Inez, “of much the 
same height and shape, although the Senora Betty is 
stronger built, and her eyes are blue and her hair golden, 
whereas your eyes are black and your hair chestnut. 
Beneath a veil, or at night, it would not be easy to tell 
you apart if your hands were gloved and neither of you 
spoke above a whisper.” 

“Yes,” said Margaret, “what then?” 

“Now the Senora Betty comes into the play,” replied 
Inez. “Senora Betty, have you understood our talk?” 

“Something, not quite all,” answered Betty. 

“Then what you do not understand your mistress must 
interpret, and be not angry with me, I pray you, if I 
seem to know more of you and your affairs than you 
have ever told me. Render my words now, Senora 
Margaret.” 

Then, after this was done, and she had thought av/hile, 
Inez continued slowly, Margaret translating from Spanish 
into English whenever Betty could not understand: 

“Morelia made love to you, in England, Senora Betty 
— did he not ? — and won your heart as he has won that 
of many another woman, so that you came to believe that 
he was carrying you off to marry you, and not your 
cousin?” 

“What affair is that of yours, woman?” asked Betty, 
flushing angrily. 

“None at all, save that I could tell much such another 
story, if you cared to listen. But hear me out, and then 
answer me a question, or rather, answer the question 


2o8 


MARGARET 


first. Would you like to be avenged upon this high-born 
knave?” 

‘‘Avenged?” answered Betty, clenching her hands and 
hissing the words through her firm, white teeth. “I 
would risk my life for it.” 

“As I do. It seems that we are of one mind there. 
Then I think that perhaps I can show you a way. Look 
now, your cousin has seen certain things which women 
placed as she is do not like to see. She is jealous, she is 
angry — or was until I told her the truth. Well, to-night 
or to-morrow Morelia will come to her and say, ‘Are you 
satisfied ? Do you still refuse me in favor of a man who 
yields his heart to the first light-of-love who tempts him? 
Will you not be my wife?^ What if she answer, ‘Yes, I 
will.’ Nay, be silent both of you, and hear me out. 
What if then there should be a secret marriage, and the 
Sehora Betty should chance to wear the bride's veil, while 
the Dona Margaret, in the robe of Betty, was let go with 
the Senor Brome and her father?” 

Inez paused, watching them both, and playing with 
the fan she held, while, the rendering of her words finished, 
Margaret and Betty stared at her and at each other, for 
the audacity and fearfulness of this plot took their breath 
away. It was Margaret who spoke the first. 

“You must not do it, Betty,” she said. “Why, when 
the man found you out, he would kill you.” 

But Betty took no heed of her, and thought on. At 
length she looked up and answered: 

“Cousin, it was my vain folly that brought you both 
into this trouble, therefore I owe something to you, do I 
not ? I am not afraid of the man — he is afraid of me ; 
and if it came to killing — why, let Inez lend me that 
knife of hers, and I think that perhaps I should give the 


BETTY SHOWS HER TEETH 


209 


first blow. And — well, I think I love him, rascal though 
he is, and, afterwards, perhaps we might make it up, who 

can say ? — while, if not But tell me, you, Inez, 

should I be his legal wife according to the law of this 
land?^’ 

“Assuredly,” answered Inez, “if a priest married you 
and he placed the ring upon your hand and named you 
wife. Then, when once the words of blessing have been 
said, the Pope alone can loose that knot, which may be 
risked, for there would be much to explain, and is this a 
tale that Morelia, a good servant of the Church, would 
care to take to Rome?” 

“It would be a trick,” broke in Margaret — “a very 
ugly trick.” 

“And what was it he played on me and you?” asked 
Betty. “Nay, I’ll chance it, and his rage, if only I can 
be sure that you and Peter will go free, and your father 
with you.” 

“But what of this Inez?” asked Margaret, bewildered. 

“She will look after herself,” answered Inez. “Per- 
chance, if all goes well, you will let me ride with you. 
And now I dare stop no longer. I go to see your father, 
the Senor Castell, and if anything can be arranged, we 
wall talk again. Meanwhile, Dona Margaret, your 
affianced is nearly well again at length and sends his 
heart’s love to you, and I counsel you, when Morelia 
speaks turn a gentle ear to him.” 

Then with another deep curtsey she glided to the door, 
unlocked it, and left the room. 

An hour later Inez was being led by an old Jew, dressed 
in a Moslem robe and turban, through one of the most 
tortuous and crowded parts of Granada. It would seem 
14 


210 


MARGARET 


that this Jew was known there, for his appearance accom- 
panied by a veiled woman apparently caused no surprise 
to those followers of the Prophet that he met, some of 
whom, indeed, saluted him with humility. 

'‘These children of Mahomet seem to love you. Father 
Israel,’’ said Inez. 

“Yes, yes, my dear,” answered the old fellow with a 
chuckle; “they owe me money, that is why, and I am 
getting it in before the great war comes with the Spaniards, 
so they would sweep the streets for me with their beards 
— all of which is very good for the plans of our friend 
yonder. Ah! he who has crowns in his pocket can put 
a crown upon his head; there is nothing that money will 
not do in Granada. Give me enough of it, and I will 
buy his sultana from the king.” 

“This Castell has plenty?” asked Inez shortly. 

“Plenty, and more credit. He is one of the richest 
men in England. But why do you ask? He would 
not think of you, who is too troubled about other 
things.” 

Inez only laughed bitterly, but did not resent the words. 
Why should she ? It was not worth while. 

“I know,” she answered, “but I mean to earn some of 
it all the same, and I want to be sure that there is enough 
for all of us.” 

“There is enough, I have told you there is enough and 
to spare,” answered the Hebrew Israel as he tapped on a 
door in a dirty looking wall. 

It opened as though by magic, and they crossed a paved 
patio, or courtyard, to a house beyond, a tumble-down 
place of Moorish architecture. 

“Our friend Castell, being in seclusion just now, has 
hired the cellar floor,” said Israel with a chuckle to Inez, 


BETTY SHOWS HER TEETH 


2II 


“so be pleased to follow me, and take care of the rats and 
beetles.” 

Then he led her down a rickety stair which opened out 
of the courtyard into vaults filled with vats of wine, and, 
having Ht a taper, through these, shutting and locking 
sundry doors behind him, to what appeared to be a very 
damp wall covered with cobwebs, and situated in a dark 
comer of a wine-cave. Here he stopped and tapped again 
in his peculiar fashion, whereon a portion of the wall 
turned outwards on a pivot, leaving an opening through 
which they could pass. 

“Well managed, isn’t it?” chuckled Israel. “Who 
would think of looking for an entrance here, especially if 
he owed the old Jew money? Come in, my pretty, 
come in.” 

Inez followed him into this darksome hole, and the 
wall closed behind them. Then, taking her by the arm, 
he turned first to the right, next to the left, opened a door 
with a key which he carried, and, behold, they stood in a 
beautifully furnished room well lighted with lamps, for it 
seemed to have no windows. 

“Wait here,” he said to Inez, pointing to a couch on 
which she sat herself down, “while I fetch my lodger,” 
and he vanished through some curtains at the end of the 
room. 

Presently these opened again, and Israel reappeared 
through them with Castell, dressed now in Moorish robes, 
and looking somewhat pale from his confinement under- 
ground, but otherwise well enough. Inez rose and stood 
before him, throwing back her veil that he might see her 
face. Castell searched her for a while with his keen eyes 
that noted everything, then said: 

“You are the lady with whom I have been in communi- 


212 


MARGARET 


cation through our friend here, are you not ? Prove it to 
me now by repeating my messages.” 

Inez obeyed, telHng him everything. 

“That is right,” he said, “but how do I know that I 
can trust you ? I understand you are, or have been, the 
lover of this man Morelia, and such an one he might well 
employ as a spy to bring us all to ruin.” 

“Is it not too late to ask such questions, Senor? If I 
am not to be trusted, already you and your people are in 
the hollow of my hand?” 

“Not at all, not at all, my dear,” said Israel. “If we 
see the slightest cause to doubt you, why, there are many 
great vats in this place, one of which, at a pinch, would 
serve you as a coffin, though it would be a pity to spoil 
the good wine.” 

Inez laughed as she answered; 

“ Save your wine, and your time too. Morelia has cast 
me off, and I hate him, and wish to escape from him and 
rob him of his prize. Also, I desire money to live on 
afterwards, and this you must give to me or I do not 
stir, or rather the promise of it, for you Jews keep your 
word, and I do not ask a maravedi from you until I have 
played my part.” 

“And then how many maravedis do you ask, young 
woman?” 

Inez named a sum, at the mention of which both of 
them opened their eyes, and old Israel exclaimed drily : 

“Surely — surely you must be one of us.” 

“No,” she answered, “but I try to follow your example, 
and, if I am to live at all, it shall be in comfort.” 

“Quite so,” said Castell, “we understand. But now 
tell us, what do you propose to do for this money?” 

“I propose to set you, your daughter, the Dona Mar- 


BETTY SHOWS HER TEETH 


213 


garet, and her lover, the Sehor Brome, safe and free outside 
the walls of Granada, and to leave the Marquis of Morelia 
married to another woman.” 

“ What other woman ? Yourself ? ” asked Castell, fixing 
on this last point in the programme. 

“No, Senor, not for all the wealth of both of you. To 
your dependent and your daughter's relative, the hand- 
some Betty.” 

“How will you manage that?” exclaimed Castell, 
amazed. 

“These cousins are not unlike, Senor, although the 
link of blood between them is so thin. Listen now, I will 
tell you.” And she explained the outhnes of her plan. 

“A bold scheme enough,” said Castell, when she had 
finished, “but even if it can be done, would that marriage 
hold?” 

“I think so,” answered Inez, “if the priest knew — 
and he could be bribed — and the bride knows. But if 
not, what would it matter, since Rome alone can decide 
the question, and long before that is done the fates of all 
of us will be settled.” 

“Rome — or death,” said Castell; and Inez read what 
he was afraid of in his eyes. 

“Your Betty takes her chance,” she replied slowly, 
“as many a one has done before her with less cause. 
She is a woman with a mind as strong as her body. Mo- 
relia made her love him and promised to marry her. 
Then he used her to steal your daughter, and she learned 
that she had been no more than a stalking-heifer, from 
behind which he would net the white swan. Do you 
not think, therefore, that she has something to pay him 
back, she through whom her beloved mistress and cousin 
has been brought into all this trouble? If she wins, she 


214 


MARGARET 


becomes the wife of a grandee of Spain, a marchioness; 
and if she loses, well, she has had her fling for a high 
stake, and perhaps her revenge. At least she is willing 
to take her chance, and, meanwhile, all of you can be 
gone.” 

Castell looked doubtfully at the Jew Israel, who stroked 
his white beard and said: 

“Let the woman set out her scheme. At any rate she 
is no fool, and it is worth our hearing, though I fear that 
at the best it must be costly.” 

“I can pay,” said Castell, and motioned to Inez to 
proceed. 

As yet, however, she had not much more to say, save 
that they must have good horses at hand, and send a 
messenger to Seville, whither the Margaret had been 
ordered to proceed, bidding her captain hold his ship 
ready to sail at any hour, should they succeed in reaching 
him. 

These things, then, they arranged, and a while later 
Inez and Israel departed, the former carrying with her a 
bag of gold. 

That same night Inez sought the priest Henriques of 
Motril in that hall of Morelia’s palace which was used 
as a private chapel, saying that she desired to speak with 
him under pretence of making confession, for they were 
old friends — or rather enemies. 

As it chanced she found the holy father in a very ill 
humor. It appeared that Morelia also was in a bad 
humor with Henriques, having heard that he had pos- 
sessed himself of the jewels in his strong-box on the 
San Antonio. Now he insisted upon his surrendering 
everything, and swore, moreover, that he would hold him 
responsible for all that his people had stolen from the 


BETTY SHOWS HER TEETH 


215 


ship, and this because he said that it was his fault that 
Peter Brome had escaped the sea and come safe to 
Granada. 

“So, Father,” said Inez, “you, who thought yourself 
rich, are poor again.” 

“Yes, my daughter, and that is what chances to those 
who put their faith in princes. I have served this marquis 
well for many years — to my souPs hurt, I fear me — 
hoping that he who stands so high in the favor of the 
Church would advance me to some preferment. But 
instead, what does he do? He robs me of a few trinkets 
that, had I not found them, the sea would have swallowed 
or some thief would have taken, and declares me his 
debtor for the rest, of which I know nothing.” 

“What preferment did you want. Father? I see that 
you have one in your mind.” 

“Daughter, a friend had written to me from Seville 
that if I have a hundred gold doubloons to pay for it, he 
can secure me the place of a secretary in the Holy Office 
where I served before as a familiar until the marquis 
made me his chaplain, and gave the benefice of Motril, 
which is worth nothing, and many promises that are 
worth less. Now those trinkets would fetch thirty, and 
I have saved twenty, and came here to borrow the other 
fifty from the marquis, to whom I have done so many 
good turns — as you know well, Inez. You see the end 
of that quest,” and he groaned angrily. 

“It is a pity,” said Inez thoughtfully, “since those who 
serve the Inquisition save many souls, do they not, in- 
cluding their own? For instance,” she added, and the 
priest winced at the words, “I remember that they saved 
the soul of my own sister and would have saved mine, 
had I been — what shall I say — more — more preju- 


2i6 


MARGARET 


diced. Also, they get a percentage of the goods of wicked 
heretics, and so become rich and able to advance them- 
selves.” 

“That is so, Inez. It was the chance of a hfetime, 
especially to one who, hke myself, hates heretics. But 
why speak of it now when that cursed, dissolute mar- 
quis ” and he checked himself. 

Inez looked at him. 

“Father,” she asked, “if I happen to be able to find 
you those hundred gold doubloons, would you do some- 
thing for me?” 

The priest’s foxy face lit up. 

“I wonder what there is that I would not do, my 
daughter!” 

“Even if it brought you into a quarrel with the mar- 
quis?” 

“Once I were a secretary to the Inquisition of Seville, 
he would have more reason to fear me than I him. Aye, 
and fear me he should, who bear him no love,” answered 
the priest with a snarl. 

“Then listen. Father. I have not made my confession 
yet; I have not told you, for instance, that I also hate 
this marquis, and with good cause — though perhaps you 
know that already. But remember that if you betray 
me you will never see those hundred gold doubloons, and 
some other holy priest will be appointed secretary to 
Seville. Also w^orse things may happen to you.” 

“Proceed, my daughter,” he said unctuously; “are we 
not in the confessional — or near it?” 

So she told him all the plot, tmsting to the man’s 
avarice and other matters to protect her, for Inez hated 
Fray Henriques bitterly, and knew him from the crown \ 
of his shaven head to the soles of his feet, as she had 





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“THERE ARE OTHERS WHERE THEY CAME FROM” 



BETTY SHOWS HER TEETH 217 

good cause to do. Only she did not tell him whence the 
money was to come. 

“That does not seem a very difficult matter,” he said, 
when she had finished. “If a man and a woman, unwed 
and outside the prohibited degrees, appear before me to 
be married, I marry them, and once the ring has passed 
and the office is said, married they are till death or the 
Pope part them.” 

“And suppose that the man thinks he is marrying 
another woman. Father?” 

The priest shrugged his shoulders. 

“He should know whom he is marrying; that is his 
affair, not mine or the Church’s. The names need not 
be spoken too loudly, my daughter.” 

“ But you would give me a writing of the marriage with 
them set out plain?” 

“Certainly. To you or to anybody else; why should 
I not? — that is, if I were sure of this wedding fee.” 

Inez lifted her hand, and showed beneath it a Httle pile 
of ten doubloons. 

“Take them. Father,” she said; “they will not be 
counted in the contract. There are others where they 
came from, whereof twenty will be paid before the mar- 
riage, and eighty when I have that writing at Seville.” 

He swept up the coins and pocketed them, saying: 

“I will trust you, Inez.” 

“Yes,” she answered as she left him, “we must trust 
each other now — must we not ? — seeing that you have 
the money, and both our necks are in the same noose. 
Be here. Father, to-morrow at the same time, in case I 
have more confessions to make, for, alas! this is a sinful 
world, as you should know very well.” 


V 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE PLOT 

On the morning following these conversations, just after 
Margaret and Betty had breakfasted, Inez appeared be- 
fore them, and, as before, locked the door behind her. 

“Senoras,” she said calmly, “I have arranged that little 
business of which I spoke to you yesterday, or at least the 
first act of the play, since it remains for you to write the 
rest. Now I am sent to say that the noble Marquis of 
Morelia craves leave to see you, Dona Margaret, and with- 
in an hour. So there is no time to lose.^^ 

“Tell us what you have done, Inez?” said Margaret. 

“I have seen your worshipful father. Dona Margaret; 
here is the token of it, which you will do well to destroy 
when you have read.” And she handed her a slip of 
paper, whereon was written in her father^s writing, and in 
English : 

Beloved Daughter, 

This messenger, who I think may be trusted by you, 
has made arrangements with me which she will explain. 
I approve, though the risk is great. Your cousin is a 
brave girl, but, understand, I do not force her to this 
dangerous enterprise. She must choose her own road. 


THE PLOT 


219 


only I promise that if she escapes and we live I will not 
forget her deed. The messenger will bring me your 
answer. God be with us all, and farewell. 

J. C. 

Margaret read this letter, first to herself and then aloud 
to Betty, and, having read, tore it into tiny fragments and 
threw them from the turret window. 

‘‘Speak now,” she said; and Inez told her everything. 

“Can you trust the priest?” asked Margaret, when she 
had finished. 

“He is a great villain, as I have reason to know, still, I 
think I can,” she answered, “while the carrot is in front 
of the donkey’s nose — I mean until he has got all the 
money. Also, he has committed himself by taking some 
on account. But before we go further, the question is — 
does this lady play?” and she pointed to Betty. 

“Yes, I play,” said Betty, when she understood every- 
thing. “I won’t go back upon my word; there is too 
much at stake. It is an ugly business for me, I know 
well enough, but,” she added slowly, setting her firm 
mouth, “I have debts to pay all round, and I am no Span- 
ish putty to be squeezed flat — like some people,” and 
she glanced at the humble-looking Inez. “So, before all 
is done, it may be uglier for him.” 

When she had mastered the meaning of this speech the 
soft- voiced Inez lifted her gentle eyes in admiration, and 
murmured a Spanish proverb as to what is supposed to 
occur when Satan encounters Beelzebub in a high- walled 
lane. Then, being a lady of resource and experience, the 
plot having been finally decided upon, not altogether with 
Margaret’s approval, who feared for Betty’s fate when it 
should be discovered, Inez began to instruct them both in 


220 


MARGARET 


various practical expedients, by means of which the un- 
doubted general resemblance of these cousins might be 
heightened and their differences toned down, to which 
end she promised to furnish them with certain hair- washes, 
pigments, and articles of apparel. 

“It is of small use,’^ said Betty, glancing first at herself 
and then at the lovely Margaret, “for even if they change 
skins, who can make the calf look like the fawn, though 
they chance to feed in the same meadow? Still, bring 
your stuffs and I will do my best; but I think that a thick 
veil and a shut mouth will help me more than any of them, 
also a long gown to hide my feet.” 

“Surely they are charming feet,” said Inez politely, 
adding to herself, “to carry you whither you wish to go.” 
Then she turned to Margaret and reminded her that the 
marquis desired to see her, and waited for her answer. 

“I will not meet him alone,” said Margaret decidedly. 

“That is awkward,” answered Inez, “as I think he 
has words to say to you which he does not wish others to 
hear, especially the Senora yonder,” and she nodded 
towards Betty. 

“I will not meet him alone,” repeated Margaret. 

“Yet, if things are to go forward as we have arranged, 
you must meet him. Dona Margaret, and give him that 
answer which he desires. Well, I think it can be arranged. 
The court below is large. Now, while you and the mar- 
quis talk at one end of it, Senora Betty and I might walk 
out of earshot at the other. She needs more instruction 
in our Spanish tongue; it would be a good opportunity to 
begin our lessons.” 

“But what am I to say to him?” asked Margaret ner- 
vously. 

“I think,” answered Inez, “that you must copy the 


THE PLOT 


221 


example of that wonderful actor, the Senor Peter, and 
play a part as you saw him do, or even better, if possible.’^ 

“ It must be a very different part then,” replied Margaret, 
stiffening visibly at certain recollections. 

The gentle Inez smiled as she said : 

“Yes, but surely you can seem jealous, for that is 
natural to us all, and you can yield by degrees, and you 
can make a bargain as the price of yourself in marriage.” 

“What bargain must I make?” 

“I think that you shall be securely wed by a priest of 
your own Church, and that letters, signed by that priest and 
announcing the marriage, shall be delivered to the Arch- 
bishop of Seville, and to their Majesties King Ferdinand 
and Queen Isabella. Also, of course, you must bargain 
that the Senor Brome and your father, the Senor Castell, 
and your cousin Betty here shall be escorted safe out of 
Granada before your marriage, and that you shall see them 
pass through the gate beneath your turret window, swear- 
ing that thereafter, at nightfall of the same day, you will 
suffer the priest to do his office and make you Morelia’s 
wife. By that time they should be well upon their road, 
and, after the rite is celebrated, I will receive the signed 
papers from the priest and follow them, leaving the false 
bride to play her part as best she can.” 

Again Margaret hesitated; the thing seemed too com- 
plicated and full of danger. But while she thought, a 
knock came on the door. 

“That is to tell me that Morelia awaits your answer in 
the court,” said Inez. “ Now, which is it to be ? Remem- 
ber that there is no other chance of escape for you, or the 
others, from this guarded town — at least I can see none.” 

“I accept,” said Margaret hurriedly, “and God help 
us all, for we shall need Him.” 


222 


MARGARET 


“And you, Senora Betty?” 

“Oh! I made up my mind long ago,” answered Betty 
coolly. “We can only fail, when we shall be no worse 
off than before.” 

“Good. Then play your parts well, both of you. 
After all, they should not be so difficult, for the priest is 
safe, and the marquis will never scent such a trick as this. 
Fix the marriage for this day week, as I have much to 
think of and make ready,” and she went. 

Half an hour later Margaret sat under the cool arcade 
of the marble court, and with her, Morelia, while upon 
the further side of its splashing fountain and out of earshot, 
Betty and Inez walked to and fro in the shadow. 

“You sent for me. Marquis,” said Margaret presently, 
“and, being your prisoner, I have come because I must. 
What is your pleasure with me?” 

“Dona Margaret,” he answered gravely, “can you not 
guess ? Well, I will tell you, lest you should guess wrong. 
First, it is to ask your forgiveness as I have done before, 
for the many crimes to which my love, my true love, for 
you has driven me. This time yesterday I knew well that 
I could expect none. To-day I dare to hope that it may 
be otherwise.” 

“Why so. Marquis?” 

“Last evening you looked into a certain garden and 
saw two people walking there — yonder is one of them,” 
and he nodded towards Inez. “Shall I go on?” 

“No,” she answered in a low voice, and passing her 
hands before her face. “Only tell me who and what is 
that woman?” and in her turn she looked towards Inez. 

“Is it necessary?” he asked. “Well, if you wish to 
know, she is a Spaniard of good blood who with her sister 



“TO-DAY I DARE TO HOPE THAT IT MAY BE OTHERWISE’* 













THE PLOT 


223 


was taken captive by the Moors. A certain priest, who 
took an interest in the sister, brought her to my notice and 
I bought her from them, so as her parents were dead, and 
she had nowhere else to go, she elected to stay in my house. 
You must not judge such things too harshly; they are com- 
mon here. Also, she has been very useful to me, being 
clever, for through her I have intelligence of many things. 
Of late, however, she has grown tired of this life, and 
wishes to earn her freedom, which I have promised her in 
return for certain services, and to leave Granada. 

“Was the nursing of my betrothed one of those ser- 
vices, Marquis?” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“As you will, Senora. Certainly I forgive her this in- 
discretion, if at last she has shown you the truth about that 
man for whose sake you have endured so much. Mar- 
garet, now that you know him for what he is, say, do you. 
still cling to him?” 

She rose and walked a few steps down the arcade, then 
came back and answered: 

“Are you any better than this fallen man?” 

“I think so, Margaret, for since I knew you I am a 
risen man; all my old self is left behind me, I am a new 
creature, and my sins have been for you, not against you. 
Hear me, I beseech you. I stole you away, it is true, but 
I have done you no other harm, and will do you none. For 
your sake also I have spared your father when I had but 
to make a sign to remove him from my path. I suffered 
him to escape from the prison where he was confined, and 
I know the place where he thinks himself hidden to-day 
among the Jews of Granada. Also, I nursed Peter Brome 
back to life, when at any hour I could have let him die, 
lest afterwards I might have it on my conscience that, but 


224 


MARGARET 


for my love for you, he might perhaps still be living. 
Well, you have seen him as he is, and what say you now ? 
Will you still reject me ? Look on me,” and he drew up 
his tall and stately shape, “and tell me, am I such a 
man as a woman should be ashamed to own as husband ? 
Remember, too, that I have much to give you in this land 
of Spain, whereof you shall become one of the greatest 
ladies, or perhaps in the future,” he added significantly, 
“even more. War draws near, Margaret; this city and 
all its rich territories will fall into the hands of Spain, 
and afterwards I shall be their governor, almost their 
king.” 

“And if I refuse?” asked Margaret. 

“Then,” he answered sternly, “you bide here, and that 
false lover of yours bides here, and your father bides here 
to take the chance of war as Christian captives with a thou- 
sand others who languish in the dungeons of the Alham- 
bra, while, my mission ended, I go hence to play my part 
in battle amongst my peers as one of the first captains of 
their Most Catholic Majesties. Yet it is not to your fears 
that I would appeal, but to your heart, for I seek your 
love and your dear companionship through life, and, if I 
can help it, desire to work you and yours no harm.” 

“You desire to work them no harm. Then, if I were 
to fall in with your humor, would you let them go in safety ? 
I mean my father and the Senor Brome and my cousin 
Betty, whom, if you were as honest as you pretend to be, 
you should ask to bide with you as your wife, and not 
myself.” 

“The last I cannot do,” he answered, flushing. “God 
knows I meant her no hurt, and only used her to keep 
near to and win news of you, thinking her, to tell truth, 
somewhat other than she is.” 


THE PLOT 


225 

“Are no women honest here in Spain, then, my lord 
Marquis?’’ 

“A few, a very few. Dona Margaret. But I erred about 
Betty, whom I took for a simple serving-girl, and to whom, 
if need be, I am ready to make all amends.” 

“Except that which is due to a woman you have 
asked to be your wife, and who in our country could 
claim the fulfilment of your promise, or declare you 
shamed. But you have not answered. Would they 
go free?” 

“As free as air — especially the Sehora Betty,” he 
added with a little smile, “for to speak truth, there is 
something in that woman’s eyes which frightens me at 
times. I think that she has a long memory. Within an 
hour of our marriage you shall look down from your win- 
dow and see them depart under escort, every one, to go 
whither they will.” 

“Nay,” answered Margaret, “it is not enough. I 
should need to see them go before, and then, if I con- 
sented, not till the sun had set would I pay the price of 
their ransom.” 

“Then do you consent?” he asked eagerly. 

“My lord Marquis, it would seem that I must. My 
betrothed has played me false. For a month or more I 
have been a prisoner in your palace, which I understand 
has no good name, and, if I refuse, you tell me that all of 
us will be cast into yonder dungeons to be sold as slaves 
or die as prisoners of the Moors. My lord Marquis, fate 
and you leave me but little choice. On this day week I 
will marry you, but blame me not if you find me other 
than you think, as you have found my cousin whom you 
befooled. Till then, also, I pray you that you will leave 
me untroubled. If you have arrangements to make or 
L5 


226 


MARGARET 


commands to send, the woman Inez yonder will serve as 
messenger, for of her I know the worst.’’ 

“I will obey you in all things. Dona Margaret,” he 
answered humbly. “ Do you desire to see your father or 
” and he paused. 

“Neither of them,” she answered. “I will write to 
them and send my letters by this Inez. Why should I 
see them,” she added passionately, “who have done with 
the old days when I was free and happy, and am about to 
become the wife of the most noble Marquis of Morelia, 
that honorable grandee of Spain, who tricked a poor girl 
by a false promise of marriage, and used her blind and 
loving folly to trap and steal me from my home? My 
lord, till this day week I bid you farewell,” and, walking 
from the arcade to the fountain, she called aloud to Betty 
to accompany her to their rooms. 

The week for which Margaret had bargained had gone 
by. All was prepared. Inez had shown to Morelia the 
letters that his bride to be wrote to her father and to Peter 
Brome; also the answers, imploring and passionate, to the 
same. But there were other letters and other answers 
which she had not shown. It was afternoon, swift horses 
were ready in the courtyard, and with them an escort, while, 
disguised as Moors, Castell and Peter waited under guard 
in a chamber close at hand. Betty, dressed in the robes 
of a Moorish woman, stood before Morelia, to whom Inez 
had led her. 

“I come to tell you,” she said, “that at sundown, three 
hours after we have passed beneath her window, my 
cousin and mistress will wait to be made your wife, but if 
you try to disturb her before then she will be no wife of 
yours, or any man’s.” 


THE PLOT 


227 


‘‘I obey/’ answered Morelia; “and Senora Betty, I pray 
your pardon, and that you will accept this gift from me 
in token of your forgiveness.” And with a low bow he 
handed to her a beautiful necklace of pearls. 

“I take them,” said Betty, with a bitter laugh, “as they 
may serve to buy me a passage back to England. But 
forgive you I do not. Marquis of Morelia, and I warn you 
that there is a score between us which I may yet live to 
settle. You seem to have won, but God in Heaven takes 
note of the wickedness of men, and in this way or in that 
He always pays His debts. Now I go to bid farewell to 
my cousin Margaret, but to you I do not bid farewell, for I 
think that we shall meet again,” and with a sob she let fall 
the veil which she had lifted above her lips to speak and 
departed with Inez, to whom she whispered as they went, 
“He will not linger for any more good-bys with Betty 
Dene.” 

They entered Margaret’s room and locked the door 
behind them. She was seated on a low divan wrapt in a 
loose robe, and by her side, glittering with silver and with 
gems, lay her bridal veil and garment. 

“Be swift,” said Inez to Betty, who stripped off her 
Moorish dress and the long, flowing veil that was wrapped 
about her head, whereon it was seen that her hair had 
changed greatly in color, from yellow to dark chestnut 
indeed, while her eyes, ringed round with pigments, and 
made lustrous by drugs dropped into them, looked no 
longer blue, but black like Margaret’s. Yes, and wonder 
of wonders, on the right side of the chin and on the back 
of the left hand were moles, or beauty-spots, just such as 
Margaret had borne there from her birth ! In short, their 
stature being much the same, though Betty was more 
thickly built, except in the strongest light it would not 


228 


MARGARET 


have been easy to distinguish them apart, even unveiled, 
for at all such arts of the altering of the looks of women 
Inez was an adept, and she had done her best. 

Now Margaret clothed herself in the white robes and 
the thick head-dress that hid her face, all except a little 
crack left for the eyes to peep through, whilst Betty, with 
the help of Inez, arrayed herself in the wondrous wedding 
robe beset with jewels that was Morelia’s bridal gift, and 
hid her dyed tresses beneath the pearl-sewn veil. Within 
ten minutes all was finished, even to the dagger that Betty 
had tied about her beneath her robe, and the two trans- 
formed women stood staring at each other. 

“It is time to go,” said Inez. 

Then Margaret broke out: 

“I do not like this business; I never did. When he 
discovers all, that man’s rage will be terrible, and he will 
kill her. I repent that I have consented to the plot.” 

“It is too late to repent now, Senora,” said Inez. 

“Cannot Betty be got away also?” asked Margaret 
desperately. 

“It is just possible,” answered Inez; “thus, before the 
marriage, according to the old custom here, I hand the 
cups of wine to the bridegroom and the bride. That for 
the marquis will be drugged, since he must not see too 
clear to-night. Well, I might brew it stronger so that 
within half an hour he would not know whether he were 
married or single, and then, perhaps, she might escape 
with me and come to join you. But it is very risky, and, 
of course, if we were discovered — the stitch would be 
out of the wineskin, and the cellar floor might be stained!” 

Now Betty interrupted: 

“Keep your stitches whole, cousin; if any skins are to be 
pricked it can’t be helped, and at least you won’t have to 


THE PLOT 


229 


wipe up the mess. I am not going to run away from the 
man, more likely he will run away from me. I look well 
in this fine dress of yours, and I mean to wear it out. 
Now begone — begone, before some of them come to 
seek me. Don’t you grieve for me; I’ll lie in the bed that 
I have made, and if the worst comes to the worst, I have 
money in my pocket — or its worth — and we will meet 
again in England. Come, give my love and duty to Master 
Peter and your father, and if I should see them no more, 
bid them think kindly of Betty Dene, who was such a 
plague to them.” 

Then taking Margaret in her strong arms, she kissed, 
her again and again, and fairly thrust her from the room. 

But when they were gone, poor Betty sat down and cried 
a little, till she remembered that hot tears might melt the 
paint upon her face, and, drying them, went to the window 
and watched. 

A while later, from her lofty niche, she saw six Moorish 
horsemen riding along the white road to the embattled 
gate. After them* came two men and a woman, all splen- 
didly mounted, also dressed as Moors, and then six other 
horsemen. They passed the gate which was opened for 
them and began to mount the slope beyond. At the crest 
of it the woman halted, and, turning, waved a handker- 
chief. Betty answered the signal, and in another minute 
they had vanished, and she was alone. 

Never did she spend a more weary afternoon. Two 
hours later, still watching at her window, she saw the 
Moorish escort return, and knew that all was well, and 
that by now, Margaret, her lover, and her father were 
safely started on their journey. So she had not risked 
her life in vain. 


CHAPTER XVIII 

THE HOLY HERMANDAD 

Down the long passages, through the great, fretted 
halls, across the cool, marble courts, flitted Inez and Mar- 
garet. It was like a dream. They went through a room 
where women, idling or working at tapestries, looked at 
them curiously. Margaret heard one of them say to 
another: 

“Why does the Dona Margaret’s cousin leave her?” 
And the answer, “ Because she is in love with the marquis 
herself, and cannot bear to stay.” 

“What a fool!” said the first woman. “She is good 
looking, and would only have had to wait a few weeks.” 

They passed an open door, that of Morelia’s own cham- 
bers. Within it he stood and watched them go by. When 
they were opposite to him some doubt or idea seemed to 
strike his mind, for he looked at them keenly, stepped 
forward, then, thinking better of it, or perhaps remem- 
bering Betty’s bitter tongue, halted and turned aside. 
That danger had gone by! 

At length, none hindering them, they reached the yard 
where the escort and the horses waited. Here, standing 
under an archway, were Castell and Peter. Castell greeted 
Margaret with a nod, but Peter, who had not seen her 

230 


THE HOLY HERMANDAD 


231 




: close since months before he rode away to Dedham, stared 
at her with all his eyes, and began to draw near to her, 
designing to find out, as he was sure he could do if once he 
1; touched her, whether indeed this were Margaret, or only 
Betty after all. Guessing what was in his mind, and that 
he might reveal everything, Inez, who held a long pin in 
her hand with which she was fastening her veil, that had 
come loose, pretended to knock against him, and ran the 
point deep into his arm, muttering, “Fool!’’ as she did 
so. He sprang back with an oath, the guard smiled, and 
she began to pray his pardon. 

Castell helped Margaret on to her horse, then mounted 
his own, as did Peter, still rubbing his arm, but not daring 
to look towards Margaret, whose hand Inez shook fa- 
miliarly in farewell as though she were her equal, address- 
ing her the while in terms of endearment such as Spanish 
women use to each other. An officer of Morelia’s house- 
hold came and counted them, saying: 

“Two men and a woman. That is right, though I 
cannot see the woman’s face.” 

For a moment he seemed to be about to order her to 
unveil, but Inez called to him that it was not decent be- 
fore all these Moors, whereon he nodded and ordered the 
captain to proceed. 

They rode through the arch of the castle along the 
roadway, through the great gate of the wall also, where the 
guard questioned their escort, stared at them, and, after 
receiving a present from Castell, let them go, telling them 
they were lucky Christians to get alive out of Granada, 
as indeed they were. 

At the brow of the rise Margaret turned and waved her 
handkerchief towards that high window which she knew 
so well. Another handkerchief was waved in answer, and, 


232 


MARGARET 


thinking of the lonely Betty watching them there while 
she awaited the issue of her desperate venture, Margaret 
went on, weeping beneath her veil. For an hour they rode 
forward, speaking no word to each other, till at length I 
they came to the cross-roads, one of which ran to Malaga, 
and the other towards Seville. 

Here the escort halted, saying that their orders were to 
leave them at this point, and asking which road they 
intended to take. Castell answered that to Malaga, 
whereon the captain answered that they were wise, as 
they were less likely to meet bands of marauding thieves 
who called themselves Christian soldiers, and murdered 
or robbed all travellers who fell into their hands. Then 
Castell offered him a present, which he accepted gravely, 
as though he did him a great favor, and, after bows and 
salutations, they departed. 

As soon as the Moors were gone the three rode a little 
way towards Malaga. Then, when there was nobody in 
sight, they turned across country and gained the Seville 
road. At last they were alone and, halting beneath the 
walls of a house that had been burnt in some Christian 
raid, they spoke together for the first time, and oh! what 
a moment was that for all of them! 

Peter pushed his horse alongside that of Margaret, 
crying : 

“Speak, beloved. Is it truly you?’^ 

But Margaret, taking no heed of him, leant over and, 
throwing her arm around her father’s neck, kissed him 
again and again through her veil, blessing God that they 
had lived to meet in safety. Peter tried to kiss her also ; 
but she caused her horse to move so that he nearly fell 
from his saddle. 

“Have a care, Peter,” she said to him, “or your love of 


THE HOLY HERMANDAD 


233 


kissing will lead you into more trouble/^ Whereon, 
guessing of what she spoke, he colored furiously, and 
began to explain at length. 

“Cease,’’ she said — “cease. I know all that story, 
for I saw you,” then, relenting, with some brief, sweet 
words of greeting and gratitude, gave him her hand, which 
he kissed often enough. 

“Come,” said Castell, “we must push on, who have 
twenty miles to cover before we reach that inn where 
Israel has arranged that we should sleep to-night. We 
will talk as we go.” And talk they did, as well as the 
roughness of the road and the speed at which they must 
travel would allow. 

Riding as hard as they were able, at length they came 
to the venta, or rough hostelry, just as the darkness closed 
in. At the sight of it they thanked God aloud, for this 
place was across the Moorish border, and now they had 
little to fear from Granada. The host, a half-bred 
Spaniard and a Christian, expected them, having received 
a message from Israel, with whom he had dealings, and 
gave them two rooms, rude enough, but sufficient, and 
good food and wine, also stabhng and barley for their 
horses, bidding them sleep well and have no fear, as he 
and his people would watch and warn them of any danger. 

Yet it was late before they slept, who had so much to 
say to each other — especially Peter and Margaret — 
and were so happy at their escape, if only for a little while. 
Yet across their joy, like the sound of a funeral bell at a 
merry feast, came the thought of Betty and that fateful 
marriage in which ere now she must have played her part. 
Indeed, at last Margaret knelt down and offered up 
prayers to Heaven that the saints might protect her cousin 
in the great peril which she had incurred for them, nor was 


234 


MARGARET 


Peter ashamed to join her in that prayer. Then they 
embraced — especially Peter and Margaret — and laid 
them down, Castell and his daughter in one room, and 
Peter in the other, and slept as best they could. 

Half an hour before dawn Peter was up seeing to the 
horses while the others breakfasted and packed the food 
that the landlord had made ready for their journey. Then 
he also swallowed some meat and wine, and at the first 
break of day, having discharged their reckoning and taken 
a letter from their host to those of other inns upon the 
road, they pressed on towards Seville, very thankful to 
find that as yet there were no signs of their being pursued. 

All that day, with short pauses to rest themselves and 
their horses, they rode on without accident, for the most 
part over a fertile plain watered by several rivers which 
they crossed at fords or over bridges. As night fell they 
reached the old town of Oxuna, which for many hours 
they had seen set upon its hill before them, and, notwith- 
standing their Moorish dress, made their way almost 
unobserved in the darkness to that inn to which they had 
been recommended. Here, although he stared at their 
garments, on finding that they had plenty of money, the 
landlord received them well enough, and again they were 
fortunate in securing rooms to themselves. It had been 
their purpose to buy Spanish clothes in this town, but, as 
it happened, it was a feast day, and at night every shop 
in the place was closed, so they could get none. Now, 
as they greatly desired to reach Seville by the following 
nightfall, hoping under cover of the darkness to find and 
come aboard of their ship, the Margaret, which they knew 
lay safely in the river, and had been advised by messenger 
of their intended journey, it was necessary for them to 
leave Oxuna before the dawn. So, unfortunately enough 


THE HOLY HERMANDAD 


235 

as it proved, it was impossible for them to put off their 
Moorish robes and clothe themselves as Christians. 

They had hoped, too, that here at Oxuna Inez might 
overtake them, as she had promised to do if she could, 
and give them tidings of what had happened since they 
left Granada. But no Inez came. So, comforting them- 
selves with the thought that however hard she rode it 
would be difficult for her to reach them, who had some 
hours start, they left Oxuna in the darkness before any 
one was astir. 

Having crossed some miles of plain, they passed up 
through olive groves into hills where cork-trees grew, and 
here stopped to eat and let the horses feed. Just as they 
were starting on again, Peter, looking round, saw mounted 
men, a dozen or more of them of very wild aspect, canter- 
ing through the trees evidently with the object of cutting 
them off. 

“ Thieves P’ he said shortly. “Ride for it.’^ 

So they began to gallop, and their horses, although some- 
what jaded, being very swift, passed in front of these men 
before they could regain the road. The band shouted to 
them to surrender, and, as they did not stop, loosed a few 
arrows, and pursued them, while they gallopped down the 
hillside on to a plain which separated them from more 
hills also clothed with cork-trees. This plain was about 
three miles wide and boggy in places. Still they kept well 
ahead of the brigands, as they took them to be, hoping 
that they would give up the pursuit or lose sight of them 
amongst the trees. As they entered these, however, to 
their dismay they saw, drawn up in front of them and 
right across the road, another band of rough-looking men, 
perhaps twelve in all. 

“Trap!” said Peter. “We must ride through them — 


236 


MARGARET 


it is our only chance,” at the same time spurring his horse 
to the front and drawing his sword. 

Choosing the spot where their line was weakest he 
dashed through it easily enough, but next second heard a 
ciy from Margaret, and pulled his horse round to see that 
her mare had fallen, and that she and Castell were in the 
hands of the thieves. Indeed, already rough men had 
hold of her, and one of them was trying to tear the veil 
from her face. With a shout of rage Peter charged at 
them, and struck so fierce a blow that his sword cut through 
the fellow’s helmet into his skull, so that he fell down, 
dying or dead, Margaret’s veil still in his hand. 

Then they rushed at him, five or six of them, and, 
although he wounded another man, dragged him from 
his horse, and, as he lay upon his back, sprang at him to 
finish him before he could rise. Already their knives 
and swords were over him, and he was making his farewells 
to life, when he heard a voice command them to desist 
and bind his arms. This was quickly done, and he was 
suffered to rise from the ground to see before him, not 
Morelia, as he half expected, but a man clad in fine armor 
beneath his rough cloak, evidently an officer of rank. 

“What kind of a Moor are you,” he asked, “who dare 
to kill the soldiers of the Holy Hermandad in the heart 
of the King’s country?” and he pointed to the dead 
man. 

“I am not a Moor,” answered Peter in his rough 
Spanish. “I am a Christian escaped from Granada, and 
I cut down that man because he was trying to insult my 
betrothed, as you would have done, Senor. I did not 
know that he was a soldier of the Hermandad ; I thought 
him a common thief of the hills.” 

This speech, or as much as he could understand of it, 


THE HOLY HERMANDAD 


237 


seemed to please the officer, but before he could answer 
Castell said : 

“ Sir officer, the senor is an Englishman, and does not 
speak your language well ” 

“He uses his sword well, anyhow,” interrupted the 
captain, glancing at the dead soldier’s cloven helm and 
head. 

“Yes, Sir, he is of your trade and, as the scar upon his 
face shows, has fought in many wars. Sir, what he tells 
you is true. We are Christian captives escaped from 
Granada and flying to Seville with my daughter, to whom 
I pray you to do no harm, to ask for the protection of their 
gracious Majesties, and to find a passage back to England.” 

“You do not look hke an Enghshman,” answered the 
captain; “you look hke a Marano.” 

“Sir, I cannot help my looks. I am a merchant of 
London, Castell by name. It is one well known in Seville 
and throughout this land, where I have large dealings, as, 
if I can but see him, your king himself will acknowledge. 
Be not deceived by our dress, which we had to put on in 
order to escape from Granada, but, I beseech you, let us 
go on to Seville.” 

“Senor Castell,” answered the officer, “I am the Cap- 
tain Arrano of Puebla, and, since you would not stop 
when we called to you, and have killed one of my best 
soldiers, to Seville you must certainly go, but with me, not 
by yourselves. You are my prisoners, but have no fear. 
No violence shall be done to you or the lady, who must 
take your trials for your deeds before the King’s court, 
and there tell your story, true or false.” 

So, having been disarmed of their swords, they were 
allowed to remount their horses and taken on towards 
Seville as prisoners. 


238 


MARGARET 


least,” said Margaret to Peter, ‘‘we have nothing 
more to fear from highwaymen, and have escaped these 
soldiers’ swords unhurt.” 

“Yes,” answered Peter with a groan, “but I hoped that 
to-night we should have slept upon the Margaret while 
she slipped down the river towards the open sea, and not 
in a Spanish jail. Now, as fate will have it, for the second 
time I have killed a man on your behalf, and all the busi- 
ness will begin again. Truly our luck is bad!” 

“I think it might be worse, and I cannot blame you for 
that deed,” answered Margaret, remembering the rough 
hands of the dead soldier, whom some of his comrades 
had stopped behind to bury. 

During all the remainder of that long day they rode on 
through the burning heat, across the rich, cultivated plain, 
towards the great city of Seville, whereof the Giralda, 
which once had been the minaret of a Moorish mosque, 
towered hundreds of feet into the air before them. At 
length, towards evening, they entered the eastern suburbs 
of the vast city and, passing through them and a great 
gate beyond, began to thread its tortuous streets. 

“Whither go we. Captain Arrano?” asked Castell 
presently. 

“To the prison of the Holy Hermandad to await your 
trial for the slaying of one of its soldiers,” answered the 
officer. 

“I pray that we may get there soon then,” said Peter, 
looking at Margaret, who, overcome with fatigue, swayed 
upon her saddle like a flower in the wind. 

“So do I,” muttered Castell, glancing round at the dark 
faces of the people, who, having discovered that they had 
killed a Spanish soldier, and taking them to be Moors, 
were marching alongside of them in great numbers, staring 


THE HOLY HERMANDAD 


239 


sullenly, or cursing them for infidels. Indeed, once when 
they passed a square, a priest in the mob cried out, ^‘Kill 
them!” whereon a number of rough fellows made a rush 
to pull them off their horses, and were with difficulty 
beaten back by the soldiers. 

Foiled in this attempt they began to pelt them with 
garbage, so that soon their white robes were stained and 
filthy. One fellow, too, threw a stone which struck 
Margaret on the wrist, causing her to cry out and drop 
her rein. This was too much for Peter, who, spurring his 
horse alongside of him, before the soldiers could interfere, 
hit him such a buffet in the face that the man rolled upon 
the ground. Now Castell thought that they would cer- 
tainly be killed, but to his surprise the mob only laughed, 
and shouted such things as “Well hit. Moor”; “That 
infidel has a strong arm,” and so forth. 

Nor was the officer angry, for when the man rose, a 
knife in his hand, he drew his sword and struck him 
down again with the flat of it, saying to Peter: 

“ Do not sully your hand with such street swine, Senor.” 

Then he turned and commanded his men to charge the 
crowd ahead of them. 

So they got through these people and, after many twists 
and turns down side streets to avoid the main avenues, 
came to a great and gloomy building and into a courtyard 
through barred gates that were opened at their approach 
and shut after them. Here they were ordered to dis- 
mount and their horses led away, while the officer, Arrano, 
entered into conversation with the governor of the prison, 
a man with a stem but not unkindly face, who surveyed 
them with much curiosity. Presently he approached and 
asked them if they could pay for good rooms, as if not he 
must put them in the common cells. 


240 


MARGARET 


Castell answered, “Yes,'^ and, by way of earnest of it, 
produced five pieces of gold, and, giving them to the 
Captain Arrano, begged him to distribute them among 
his soldiers as a thankoffering for their protection of them 
through the streets. Also, he said loudly enough for 
every one to hear, that he would be willing to compensate 
the relatives of the man whom Peter had killed by acci- 
dent — an announcement that evidently impressed his 
comrades very favorably. Indeed, one of them said he 
would bear the message to his widow, and, on behalf of 
the rest, thanked him for his gift. Then having bade 
farewell to the officer, who told them that they would 
meet again before the judges, they were led through the 
various passages of the prison to two rooms, one small 
and one of a fair size with heavily barred windows, given 
water to wash in, and told that food would be brought to 
them. 

In due course it came, carried by jailers, meat, eggs, and 
wine, and glad enough were they to see it. While they 
ate also the governor appeared with a notary, and, having 
waited till their meal was finished, began to question them. 

“Our story is long,” said Castell, “but with your leave 
I will tell it you, only, I pray you, suffer my daughter, 
the Dona Margaret, to go to rest, for she is quite out- worn, 
and if you will you can question her to-morrow.” 

The governor assenting, Margaret threw off her veil to 
embrace her father, thus showing her beauty for the first 
time, whereat the governor and the notary stared amazed. 
Then having given Peter her hand to kiss, and curtseyed 
to the governor and the notary, she went to her bed in the 
next room, which opened out of that in which they were. 

When she had gone, Castell told his story of how his 
daughter had been kidnapped by the Marquis of Morelia, 


THE HOLY HERMANDAD 


241 


a name that caused the governor to open his eyes very 
wide, and brought from London to Granada, whither 
they, her father and her betrothed, had followed her, and 
escaped. But of Betty and all the business of the changed 
bride he said nothing. Also knowing that these must 
come out in any case, he told them his name and business, 
and those of his partners and correspondents in Seville, 
the firm of Bemaldez, which was one that the governor 
knew well enough, and prayed that the head of that firm, 
the Senor Carlos Bemaldez, might be communicated with 
and allowed to visit them on the next morning. Lastly, 
he explained that they were no thieves or adventurers, 
but English subjects in misfortune, and again hinted that 
they were both able and willing to pay for any kindness 
or consideration that was shown to them, of all of which 
sayings the governor took note. 

Also this ofl&cer said that he would communicate with 
his superiors, and, if no objection were made, send a 
messenger to ask the Senor Bemaldez to attend at the 
prison on the following day. Then at length he and the 
notary departed, and, the jailers having cleared away 
the food and locked the door, Castell and Peter lay down 
on the beds that they had made ready for them, thankful 
enough to find themselves at Seville, even though in a 
prison, where indeed they slept very well that night. 

On the following morning they woke much refreshed, 
and, after they had breakfasted, the governor appeared, 
and with him none other than the Senor Carlos Bemaldez, 
CastelPs secret correspondent and Spanish partner, whom 
he had last seen some years before in England, a stout 
man with a quiet, clever face, not over given to words. 

Greeting them with a deference that was not lost upon 
the governor, he asked whether he had leave to speak 
16 


242 


MARGARET 


with them alone. The governor assented and went, 
saying he would return within an hour. As soon as the 
door was closed behind him, Bemaldez said: 

“This is a strange place to meet you in, John Castell, 
yet I am not altogether surprised, since some of your 
messages reached me through our friends the Jews; also 
your ship, the Margaret, lies refitted in the river, and to 
avoid suspicion I have been lading her slowly with a cargo 
for England, though how you will come aboard that ship 
is more than I can say. But we have no time to waste. 
Tell me all your story, keeping nothing back.” 

So they told him everything as quickly as they could, 
while he listened silently. When they had done, he said, 
addressing Peter: 

“It is a thousand pities, young sir, that you could not 
keep your hands off that soldier, for now the trouble that 
was nearly done with has begun anew, and in a worse 
shape. The Marquis of Morelia is a very powerful man 
in this kingdom, as you may know from the fact that he 
was sent to London by their Majesties to negotiate a treaty 
with your English King Henry as to the Jews and their 
treatment, should any of them escape thither after they 
have been expelled from Spain. For nothing less is in 
the wind, and I would have you know that their Majesties 
hate the Jews, and especially the Maranos, whom already 
they bum by dozens here in Seville,” and he glanced 
meaningly at Castell. 

“I am very sorry,” said Peter, “but the fellow handled 
her roughly, and I was maddened at the sight and could 
not help myself. This is the second time that I have come 
into trouble from the same cause. Also, I thought that 
he was but a bandit.” 

“Love is a bad diplomatist,” replied Bemaldez, with a 


THE HOLY HERMANDAD 


243 


little smile, “and who can count last yearns clouds? What 
is done, is done. Now I will try to arrange that the three 
of you shall be brought straight before their Majesties 
when they sit to hear cases on the day after to-morrow. 
With the Queen you will have a better chance than at the 
hands of any alcalde. She has a heart, if only one can 
get at it — that is, except where Jews and Maranos are 
concerned,’^ and again he glanced at Castell. “Mean- 
while, there is money in plenty, and in Spain we ride to 
heaven on gold angels,” he added, alluding to that coin 
and the national corruption. 

Before they could say more the governor returned, 
saying that the Senor Bemaldez’ time was up, and asking 
if they had finished their talk. 

“Not altogether,” said Margaret. “Noble Governor, is 
it permitted that the Senor Bemaldez should send me some 
Christian clothes to wear, for I would not appear before 
your judges in this heathen garb, nor, I think, would my 
father or the Senor Brome?” 

The governor laughed, and said he thought that might 
be arranged, and even allowed them another five minutes, 
while they talked of what these clothes should be. Then 
he departed with Bemaldez, leaving them alone. 

It was not until the latter had gone, however, that they 
remembered that they had forgotten to ask him whether 
he had heard anything of the woman Inez, who had been 
furnished with his address, but, as he had said nothing of 
her, they felt sure that she could not have arrived in Seville, 
and once more were much afraid as to what might have 
happened after they had left Granada. 

That night, to their grief and alarm, a new trouble fell 
on them. Just as they finished their supper the governor 
appeared and said that, by order of the Court before 


244 


MARGARET 


which they must be tried, the Senor Brome, who was 
accused of murder, must be separated from them. So, 
in spite of all they could say or do, Peter was led away to 
a separate cell, leaving Margaret weeping. 


CHAPTER XIX 

BETTY PAYS HER DEBTS 

Betty Dene was not a woman afflicted with fears or 
apprehensions. Bom of good parents, but in poverty, 
for six-and-twenty years she had fought her own way in 
a rough world and made the best of circumstances. 
Healthy, full-blooded, tough, affectionate, romantic, but 
honest in her way, she was well fitted to meet the ups 
and downs of life, to keep her head above the waters of 
a turbulent age, and to pay back as much as she received 
from man or woman. 

Yet those long hours which she passed alone in the 
high turret chamber, waiting till they summoned her to 
play the part of a false bride, were the worst that she had 
ever spent. She knew that her position was, in a sense, 
shameful, and like to end in tragedy, and, now that she 
faced it in cold blood, began to wonder why she had 
chosen so to do. She had fallen in love with this Spaniard 
almost at first sight, though it is true that this had hap- 
pened to her before with other men. Then he had played 
his part with her, till, quite deceived, she gave all her 
heart to him in good earnest, believing in her infatuation 
that, notwithstanding the difference of their place and 
rank, he desired to make her his wife for her own sake. 

245 


MARGARET 


246 

Afterwards came that bitter day of disillusion when she | 
learned, as Inez had said to Castell, that ^he was but a 
stalking-heifer used for the taking of the white swan, her 
cousin and mistress, that day when she had been beguiled 
by the letter which was still hid in her garments, and for 
her pains heard herself called a fool to her face. In her 
heart she had sworn to be avenged upon Morelia then, 
and now the hour had come in which to fulfil her oath and 
pay him back trick for cruel trick. 

Did she still love the man? She could not say. He 
was pleasing to her as he had always been, and when 
that is so women forgive much. This was certain, how- 
ever — love was not her guide to-night. Was it ven- 
geance then that led her on ? Perhaps; at least she longed 
to be able to say to him, “See what craft lies hid even in 
the bosom of an outwitted fool.” 

Yet she would not have done it for vengeance’ sake 
alone, or rather she would have paid herself in some 
other fashion. No, her real reason was that she must 
discharge the debt due to Margaret and Peter, and to 
Castell who had sheltered her for years. She it was who 
had brought them into all this woe, and it seemed but 
just that she should bring them out again, even at the 
cost of her own life and womanly dignity. Or, perchance, 
all three of these powers drove her on, love for the man 
if it still lingered, — the desire to be avenged upon him, 
and the desire to snatch his prey from out his maw. At 
least she had set the game, and she would play it out to 
its end, however awful that might be. 

The sun sank, the darkness closed about her, and she 
wondered whether ever again she would see the dawn. 
Her brave heart quailed a little, and she gripped the 
dagger hilt beneath her splendid, borrowed robe, thinking 


BETTY PAYS HER DEBTS 


247 


to herself that perhaps it might be wisest to drive it into 
her own breast, and not wait until a balked madman did 
that office for "her. Yet not so, for it is always time to 
die when one must. 

A knock came at the door, and her courage, which had 
sunk so low, burned up again within her. Oh ! she would 
teach this Spaniard that the Englishwoman, whom he 
had made believe was his desired mistress, could be his 
master. At any rate, he should hear the truth before 
the end. 

She unlocked the door, and Inez entered bearing a 
lamp, by the light of which she scanned her with her 
quiet eyes. 

“The bridegroom waits, she said slowly that Betty 
might understand, “and sends me to lead you to him. 
Are you afraid?’’ 

“Not I,” answered Betty. “But tell me, how will the 
thing be done?” 

“He meets us in the anteroom to that hall which is 
used as a chapel, and there on behalf of the household I 
give you both the cups of wine. Be sure that you drink 
of that which I hold in my left hand, passing the cup up 
beneath your veil so as not to show your face, and speak 
no word, lest he should recognize your voice. Then we 
shall go into the chapel, where the priest Henriques waits, 
also the household. But that hall is great, and the lamps 
are feeble, so none will know you there. By this time also 
the drugged wine will have begun to work upon Morelia’s 
brain, wherefore, provided that you use a low voice, you 
may safely say, H, Betty, wed thee, Carlos,’ not ‘I, Mar- 
garet, wed thee.’ Then, when it is over, he will lead you 
away to the chambers prepared for you, where, if there 
is any virtue in my wine, he will sleep sound to-night. 


248 


MARGARET 


that is, when the priest has given me the marriage-lines, 
whereof I will hand you one copy and keep the others. 
Afterwards ” and she shrugged her shoulders. 

“What becomes of you?’’ asked Betty, when she had 
fully mastered these instructions. 

“Oh! I and the priest start to-night for a ride together 
to Seville, where his money awaits him; ill company for a 
woman who means henceforth to be honest and rich, but 
better than none. Perhaps we shall meet again there, or 
perhaps we shall not; at least, you know where to seek 
me and the others, at the house of the Senor Bemaldez. 
Now it is time. Are you ready to be made a marchioness 
of Spain?” 

“Of course,” answered Betty coolly, and they started. 

Through the empty halls and corridors they went, and 
oh! surely no Eastern plot that had been conceived in 
them was quite so bold and desperate as theirs. They 
reached the ante-chamber to the chapel, and took their 
stand outside of the circle of light that fell from its hanging 
lamps. Presently a door opened, and through it came 
Morelia, attended by two of his secretaries. He was 
splendidly arrayed in his usual garb of black velvet, and 
about his neck hung chains of gold and jewels, and to 
his breast were fastened the glittering stars and orders 
pertaining to his rank. Never, or so thought Betty, had 
Morelia seemed more magnificent and handsome. He 
was happy also, who was about to drink of that cup of 
joy which he so earnestly desired. Yes, his face showed 
that he was happy, and Betty, noting it, felt remorse 
stirring in her breast. Low he bowed before her, while 
she curtseyed to him, bending her tall and graceful form 
till her knee almost touched the ground. Then he came 
to her and whispered in her ear: 


BETTY PAYS HER DEBTS 


249 


^‘Most sweet, most beloved,’’ he said, “I thank heaven 
that has led me to this joyous hour by many a rough 
and dangerous path. Most dear, again I beseech you to 
forgive all the sorrow and the ill that I have brought upon 
you, remembering that it was done for your adored sake, 
that I love you as woman has been seldom loved, you, 
and you only, and that to you, and you only, will I cling 
until my death’s day. Oh! do not tremble and shrink, 
for I swear that no woman in Spain shall have a better 
or a more loyal lord. You I will cherish alone, for you 
I will strive by night and day to lift you to great honor 
and satisfy your every wish. Many and pleasant may 
the years be that we shall spend side by side, and peaceful 
our ends when at last we lay us down side by side to sleep 
awhile and wake again in heaven, whereof the shadow 
lies on me to-night. Remembering the past, I do not ask 
much of you — as yet; still, if you are minded to give me 
a bridal gift that I shall prize above crowns or empires, 
say that you forgive me all that I have done amiss, and 
in token, lift that veil of yours and kiss me on the lips.” 

Betty heard this speech whereof she only fully under- 
stood the end, and trembled. This was a trial that she 
had not foreseen. Yet it must be faced, for speak she 
dared not. Therefore, gathering up her courage, and 
remembering that the light was at her back, after a little 
pause, as though of modesty and reluctance, she lifted 
the pearl-embroidered veil, and, bending forward beneath 
its shadow, suffered Morelia to kiss her on the lips. 

It was over, the veil had fallen again, and the man 
suspected nothing. 

“I am a good artist,” thought Inez to herself, '‘and 
that woman acts better than the wooden Peter. Scarcely 
could I have done it so well myself.” 


250 


MARGARET 


Then, the jealousy and hate that she could not control 
glittering in her soft eyes, for she too had loved this man, 
and well, Inez took up the golden cups that had been 
prepared, and, gliding forward, beautiful in her broidered, 
Eastern robe, fell upon her knee and held them to the 
bridegroom and the bride. Morelia took that from her 
right hand, and Betty that from her left, nor, intoxicated 
as he was already with that first kiss of love, did he pause 
to note the evil purpose which was written on the face of 
his discarded slave. Betty, passing the cup beneath her 
veil, touched it with her lips and returned it to Inez; 
but Morelia, exclaiming, “I drink to you, sweet bride, 
most fair and adored of women,” drained his to the dregs, 
and cast it back to Inez as a gift in such fashion that the 
red wine which clung to its rim stained her white robes 
like a splash of blood. 

Humbly she bowed, humbly she lifted the precious 
vessel from the floor; but when she rose again there was 
triumph in her eyes — not hate. 

Now Morelia took his bride’s hand and, followed by 
his gentlemen and Inez, walked to the curtains that were 
drawn as they came into the great hall beyond, where had 
gathered all his household, perhaps a hundred of them. 
Between their bowing ranks they passed, a stately pair, 
and, whilst sweet voices sang behind some hidden screen, 
walked onward to the altar, where stood the waiting priest. 
They kneeled down upon the gold- embroidered cushions 
while the office of the Church was read over them. The 
ring was set upon Betty’s hand — scarce, it would seem, 
could he find her finger — the man took the woman to 
wife, the woman took the man for husband. His voice 
was thick, and hers was very low; of all that listening 
crowd none could hear the names they spoke. 


BETTY PAYS HER DEBTS 


251 


It was over. The priest bowed and blessed them. 
They signed some papers, there by the light of the altar 
candles. Father Henriques filled in certain names and 
signed them also, then, casting sand upon them, placed 
them in the outstretched hand of Inez, who, although 
Morelia never seemed to notice, gave one to the bride, 
and thrust the other two into the bosom of her robe. 
Then both she and the priest kissed the hands of the 
marquis and his wife, and asked his leave to be gone. 
He bowed his head vaguely, and — if any had been there 
to listen — within ten short minutes they might have 
heard two horses galloping hard towards the Seville gate. 

Now, escorted by pages and torch-bearers, the new- 
wed pair repassed those dim and stately halls, the bride, 
veiled, mysterious, fateful; the bridegroom, empty-eyed, 
like one who wanders in his sleep. Thus they reached 
their chamber, and its carved doors shut behind them. 

It was morning when the serving-women who waited 
without that room were summoned to it by the sound of 
a silver gong. Two of them entered and were met by 
Betty, no longer veiled, but wrapt in a loose robe, who 
said to them: 

“My lord the marquis still sleeps. Come, help me 
dress and make ready his bath and food.” 

The women stared at her, for now that she had washed 
the paint from her face they knew well that this was the 
Senora Betty and not the Dona Margaret, whom, they 
had understood, the marquis was to marry. But she chid 
them sharply in her bad Spanish, bidding them be swift, 
as she would be robed before her lord the marquis should 
awake. So they obeyed her, and when she was ready 
she went with them into the great hall where many of 


252 


MARGARET 


the household were gathered, waiting to do homage to 
the new-wed pair, and greeted them all blushing and 
smiling, saying that doubtless the marquis would be 
among them soon, and commanding them meanwhile to 
go about their several tasks. 

So well did Betty play her part indeed, that, although 
they also were bewildered, none questioned her place or 
authority, who remembered that after all they had not 
been told by their lord himself which of these two English 
ladies he meant to marry. Also, she distributed among 
the meaner of them a present of money on her husband’s 
behalf and her own, and then ate food and drank some j 
wine before them all, pledging them, and receiving their j 
salutations and good wishes. 

When all this was done, still smiling, Betty returned to ' 
the marriage-chamber, closing its door behind her, sat i 
her down on a chair near the bed, and waited for the j 
worst struggle of all — that struggle on which hung her | 
life. 

See! Morelia stirred. He sat up, gazing about him 
and rubbing his brow. Presently his eyes lit upon Betty, 
seated stern and upright in her high chair. She rose and, 
coming to him, kissed him and called him “Husband,” 
and, still half-asleep, he kissed her back. Then she sat 
down again in her chair and watched his face. 

It changed, and changed again. Wonder, fear, amaze, 
bewilderment, flitted over it, till at last he said in English : 

“Betty, where is my wife?” 

“Here,” answered Betty. 

He stared at her. “Nay, I mean the Dona Margaret, 
your cousin and my lady, whom I wed last night. And 
how come you here? I thought that you had left Gra- 
nada.” 


BETTY PAYS HER DEBTS 


253 


Betty looked astonished. 

“I do not understand you,’* she answered. ^‘It was 
my cousin Margaret who left Granada. I stayed here to 
be married to you, as you arranged with me through 
Inez.” 

His jaw dropped. 

Arranged with you through Inez ! Mother of Heaven ! 
what do you mean?” 

“Mean?” she answered — “I mean what I say. 
Surely” — and she rose in indignation — “you have never 
dared to try to play some new trick upon me?” 

“Trick!” muttered Morelia. “What says the woman? 
Is all this a dream, or am I mad?” 

“A dream, I think. Yes, it must be a dream, since 
certainly it was to no madman that I was wed last night. 
Look,” and she held before him that writing of marriage 
signed by the priest, by him, and by herself, which stated 
that Carlos, Marquis of Morelia, was on such a date, at 
Granada, duly married to the Senora Elizabeth Dene of 
London in England. 

He read it twice, then sank back gasping; while Betty 
hid away the parchment in her bosom. 

Then presently he seemed to go mad indeed. He raved, 
he cursed, he ground his teeth, he looked round for a 
sword to kill her or himself, but could find none. And 
all the while Betty sat still and gazed at him like some 
living fate. 

At length he was weary, and her turn came. 

“Listen,” she said. “Yonder in London you prom- 
ised to marry me; I have it hidden away, and in your own 
writing. By agreement I fled with you to Spain. By 
the mouth of your messenger and former love this mar- 
riage was arranged between us, I receiving your messages 


254 


MARGARET 


to me, and sending back mine to you, since you explained 
that for reasons of your own you did not wish to speak 
of these matters before my cousin Margaret, and could 
not wed me until she and her father and her lover were 
gone from Granada. So I bade them farewell, and 
stayed here alone for love of you, as I fled from London 
for love of you, and last night we were united, as all your 
household know, for but now I have eaten with them and 
received their good wishes. And now you dare — you 
dare to tell me, that I, your wife — I, who have sacrificed 
everything for you, I, the Marchioness of Morelia, am 
not your wife. Well, go, say it outside this chamber, and 
hear your very slaves cry ‘Shame’ upon you. Go, say it 
to your king and your bishops, aye, and to his Holiness 
the Pope himself, and listen to their answer. Why, great 
as you are, and rich as you are, they will hale you to a 
mad-house or a prison.” 

Morelia listened, rocking himself to and fro upon the 
bed, then with an oath sprang towards her, to be met by 
a dagger-point glinting in his eyes. 

“Hear me again,” she said as he shrank back from 
that cold steel. “I am no slave and no weakling; you 
shall not murder me or thrust me away. I am your wife 
and your equal, aye, and stronger than you in body and 
in mind, and I will have my rights in the face of God 
and man.” 

“Certainly,” he said with a kind of unwilling admira- 
tion — “certainly you are no weakling. Certainly, also, 
you have paid back all you owe me with a Jew’s interest. 
Or, mayhap, you are not so clever as I think, but just a 
strong-minded fool, and it is that accursed Inez who has 
settled her debts! Oh! to think of it,” and he shook his 
fist in the air, “to think that I believed myself married 


BETTY PAYS HER DEBTS 


255 


to the Dona Margaret, and find you in her place — 
you /” 

“Be silent,’’ she said, “you man without shame, who 
first fly at the throat of your new-wedded wife and then 
insult her by saying that you wish you were married to 
another woman. Be silent, or I will unlock the door 
and call your own people and repeat your monstrous 
talk to them.” And she drew herself to her full height 
and stood over him on the bed. 

Morelia, his first rage spent, looked at her reflectively, 
and not without a certain measure of homage. 

“I think,” he remarked, “that if he did not happen 
to be in love with another woman and to believe that he 
had married her, you, my good Betty, would make a 
useful wife to any man who wished to get on in the world. 
I understood you to say that the door is locked, and if I 
might hazard a guess, you have the key, as also you 
happen to have a dagger. Well, I find the air in this 
place close, and I want to go out.” 

“Where to?” asked Betty. 

“Let us say, to join Inez.” 

“What,” she asked, “would you already be running 
after that woman again? Do you already forget that 
you are married?” 

“It seems that I am not to be allowed to forget it. 
Now, let us bargain. I wish to leave Granada for a while, 
and without scandal. What are your terms ? Remember 
that there are two to which I will not consent. I will not 
stop here with you, and you shall not accompany me. Re- 
member also, that, although you hold the dagger at pres- 
ent, it is not wise of you to try to push this jest too far.” 

“As you did when you decoyed me on board the San 
Antonio said Betty. “Well, our honeymoon has not 


256 


MARGARET 


begun too sweetly, and I do not mind if you go away for 
a while — to look for Inez. Swear now that you mean 
me no harm, and that you will not plot my death or 
disgrace, or in any way interfere with my liberty or posi- 
tion here in Granada. Swear it on the Rood.” And she 
took down a silver crucifix that hung upon the wall over 
the bed and handed it to him. For she knew Morelia’s 
superstitions, and that if once he swore upon this symbol 
he dare not break his oath. 

“And if I will not swear?” he asked sullenly. 

“Then,” she answered, “you stop here until you do, 
you who are anxious to be gone. I have eaten food this 
morning, you have not; I have a dagger, you have none; 
and, being as we are, I am sure that no one will venture 
to disturb us until Inez and your friend the priest have 
gone further than you can follow.” 

“Very well, I will swear,” he said, and he kissed the 
crucifix and threw it down. “You can stop here and 
rule my house in Granada, and I will do you no mischief, 
nor trouble you in any way. But if you come out of 
Granada, then we cross swords.” 

“You mean that you intend to leave this city? Then, 
here is paper and ink. Be so good as to sign an order to 
the stewards of your estates, within the territories of the 
Moorish king, to pay all their revenue to me during your 
absence, and to your servants to obey me in everything.” 

“It is easy to see that you were brought up in the house 
of a Jew merchant,” said Morelia, biting his pen and 
considering this woman who, whether she were hawk or 
pigeon, knew so well how to feather her nest. “Well, if 
I grant you this position and these revenues, will you leave 
me alone and cease to press other claims upon me?” 

Now Betty, bethinking her of those papers that Inez 


BETTY PAYS HER DEBTS 


257 


had carried away with her, and that Castell and Margaret 
would know well how to use them if there were need, 
bethinking her also that if she pushed him too far at the 
beginning she might die suddenly as folk sometimes did 
in Granada, answered: 

“It is much to ask of a deluded woman, but I still 
have some pride, and will not thrust myself in where it 
seems I am not wanted. Therefore, so be it. Till you 
seek me or send for me, I will not seek you so long as 
you keep your bargain. Now write the paper, sign it,% 
and call in your secretaries to witness the signature.” 

“In whose favor must I word it?” he asked. 

“In that of the Marquessa of Morelia, she answered, 
and he, seeing a loophole in the words, obeyed her, since 
if she were not his wife this writing would have no 
value. 

Somehow he must be rid of this woman. Of course he 
might cause her to be killed; but even in Granada people 
could not kill one to whom they had seemed to be just 
married without questions being asked. Moreover, Betty 
had friends, and he had enemies who would certainly ask 
them if she vanished away. No, he would sign the paper 
and fight the case afterwards, for he had no time to lose. 
Margaret had slipped away from him, and if once she 
escaped from Spain he knew that he would never see her 
more. For aught he knew, she might already have 
escaped or be married to Peter Brome. The very thought 
of it filled him with madness. There had been a con- 
spiracy against him; he was outwitted, robbed, befooled. 
Well, hope still remained — and vengeance. He could 
still fight Peter, and perhaps kill him. He could hand 
over Castell, the Jew, to the Inquisition. He could find 
a way to deal with the priest Henriques, and the woman 


258 


MARGARET 


Inez, and, perhaps, if fortune favored him, he could get 
Margaret back into his power. 

Oh! yes, he would sign anything if only thereby he was 
set at liberty and freed for a while from this servant who 
called herself his wife, this strong-minded, strong-bodied 
clever Englishwoman, of whom he had thought to make 
a tool, and who had made a tool of him. 

So Betty dictated, and he wrote; yes, it had come to this 
— she dictated and he wrote, and signed too. The order 
was comprehensive. It gave power to the most honorable 
Marquessa of Morelia to act for him, her husband, in all 
things during his absence from Granada. It commanded 
that all rents and profits due to him should be paid to 
her, and that all his servants and dependents should obey 
her as though she were himself, and that her receipt 
should be as good as his receipt. 

When the paper was written, and Betty had spelt it 
over carefully to see that there was no omission or mistake, 
she unlocked the door, struck upon the gong, and sum- 
moned the secretaries to witness their lord’s signature to 
a settlement. Presently they came, bowing, and offering 
many felicitations, which to himself Morelia vowed he 
would remember against them. 

‘‘I have to go a journey,” he said. “Witness my 
signature to this document, which provides for the carrying 
on of my household and the disposal of my property 
during my absence.” 

They stared and bowed. 

“Read it aloud first,” said Betty, “so that my lord and 
husband may be sure that there is no mistake.” 

One of them obeyed, but before ever he had 
finished the furious Morelia shouted to them from the 
bed ; 


BETTY PAYS HER DEBTS 


259 

Have done and witness, then go, order me horses and 
an escort, for I ride at once.” 

So they witnessed in a great hurry, and left the room. 

Betty left with them, holding the paper in her hand, 
and when she reached the large hall where the household 
were gathered waiting to greet their lord, she commanded 
one of the secretaries to read it out to all of them, also to 
translate it into the Moorish tongue that every one might 
understand. Then she hid it away with the marriage 
lines, and, seating herself in the midst of the household, 
ordered them to prepare to receive the most noble marquis. 

They had not long to wait, for presently he came out 
of the room like a bull into the arena, whereon Betty rose 
and curtseyed to him, and at her word all his servants 
bowed themselves down in the Eastern fashion. For a 
moment he paused, again like the bull when he sees the 
picadors and is about to charge. Then he thought better 
of it, and, with a muttered curse, strode past them. 

Ten minutes later, for the third time within twenty-four 
hours, horses gallopped from the castle and through the 
Seville gate. 

“Friends,” said Betty in her awkward Spanish, when 
she knew that he had gone, “a sad thing has happened 
to my husband, the marquis. The woman Inez, whom 
it seems he trusted very much, has departed, stealing a 
treasure that he valued above everything on earth, and 
so I, his new-made wife, am left desolate while he tries 
to find her.” 


CHAPTER XX 

ISABELLA OF SPAIN 

On the afternoon following his first visit, Castell’s 
agent, Bernaldez, arrived again at the prison of the Her- 
mandad at Seville accompanied by a tailor, a woman, 
and a chest full of clothes. The governor ordered these 
two persons to wait while the garments were searched 
under his own eye, but Bernaldez he permitted to be led 
at once to the prisoners. As soon as he was with them 
he said: 

^‘Your marquis has been married fast enough.’’ 

“How do you know that?” asked Castell. 

“From the woman Inez, who arrived with the priest 
last night, and gave me the certificates of his union with 
Betty Dene signed by himself. I have not brought them 
with me lest I should be searched, when they might have 
been taken away; but Inez has come disguised as a semp- 
stress, so show no surprise when you see her, if she is 
admitted. Perhaps she will be able to tell the Dona Mar- 
garet something of what passed if she is allowed to fit 
her robes alone. After that she must lie hidden for fear 
of the vengeance of Morelia; but I shall know where to 
put my hand upon her if she is wanted. You will all of 
you be brought before the queen to-morrow, and then I, 
who shall be there, will produce the writings.” 

260 


ISABELLA OF SPAIN 


261 


Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the 
governor appeared, and with him the tailor and Inez, who 
curtseyed and glanced at Margaret out of the corners of 
her soft eyes, looking at them all as though with curiosity, 
like one who had never seen or heard of them before. 

When the dresses had been produced, Margaret asked 
whether she might be allowed to try them on with the 
woman in her own chamber, as she had not been measured 
for them. 

The governor answered that as both the sempstress and 
the robes had been searched, there was no objection, so the 
two of them retired, Inez with her arms full of garments. 

“Tell me all about it,” whispered Margaret as soon as 
the door was closed. “I die to hear your story.” 

So, while she fitted the clothes, since in that place they 
could never be sure but that they were watched through 
some secret loophole, Inez, with her mouth full of aloe 
thorns, which those of the trade used as pins, told her 
everything down to the time of her escape from Granada. 
When she came to that part of the tale where the false 
bride had lifted her veil and kissed the bridegroom, Mar- 
garet gasped in her amaze. 

“Oh! how could she do it?” she said. “I should have 
fainted first.” 

“ She has a good courage, that Betty — turn to the light, 
please, Senora — I could not have acted better myself — 
I think it is a little high on the left shoulder. He never 
guessed a thing, the besotted fool, and that was before I 
gave him the wine, for he wasn’t likely to guess much 
afterwards. Did the senora say it was tight under the 
arm? Well, perhaps a little, but this stuff stretches. 
What I want to know is, what happened afterwards? 
Your cousin is the bull that I put my money on: I believe 


262 


MARGARET 


she will clear the ring. A woman with a nerve of steel; 
had I as much I should have been the Marchioness of 
Morelia long ago, or there would be another marquis by 
now. There, the sit of the skirt is perfect; the senora’s 
beautiful figure looks more beautiful in it than ever. Well, 
whoever lives will learn all about it, and it is no use worry- 
ing. Meanwhile, Bernaldez has paid me the money — 
and a handsome sum too — so you needn’t thank me. I 
only worked for hire — and hate. Now I am going to 
lie low, as I don’t want to get my throat cut, but he can 
find me if I am really needed. 

“ The priest ? Oh, he is safe enough. We made him 
sign a receipt for his cash. Also, I believe that he has 
got his post as a secretary to the Inquisition, and began his 
duties at once as they were short-handed, torturing Jews 
and heretics, you know, and stealing their goods, both of 
which occupations will exactly suit him. I rode with him 
all the way to Seville, and he tried to make love to me, the 
slimy knave, but I paid him out,” and Inez smiled, at some 
pleasant recollection. “Still, I did not quarrel with him 
outright, as he may come in useful. Who knows ? There’s 
the governor calling me. One moment, Excellency, only 
one moment!” 

“Yes, Senora, with those few alterations the dress will 
be perfect. You shall have it back to-night without fail, 
and I can cut the others that you have been pleased to 
order from the same pattern. Oh! I thank you, Senoira, 
you are too good to a poor girl, and,” in a whisper, “the 
Mother of God have you in her guard, and send that Peter 
has improved in his love-making!” and, half hidden in 
garments, Inez bowed herself out of the room through the 
door which the governor had already opened. 

About nine o’clock on the following morning one of the 


ISABELLA OF SPAIN 


263 


jailers came to summon Margaret and her father to be led 
before the court. Margaret asked anxiously if the Senor 
Brome was coming too, but the man replied that he knew 
nothing of the Senor Brome, as he was in one of the cells 
for dangerous criminals, which he did not serve. 

So forth they went, dressed in their new clothes, which 
were as fine as money could buy, and in the latest Seville 
fashion, and were conducted to the courtyard. Here, to 
her joy, Margaret saw Peter waiting for them under guard, 
and dressed also in the Christian garments which they had 
begged might be supplied to him at their cost. She sprang 
to his side, none hindering her, and, forgetting her 
bashfulness, suffered him to embrace' her before them 
all, asking him how he had fared since they were 
parted. 

“None too well,” answered Peter gloomily, “who did 
not know if we should ever meet again; also, my prison is 
underground, where but little light comes through a grating, 
and there are rats in it which will not let a man sleep, so I 
must lie awake the most of the night thinking of you. 
But where go we now ?” 

“To be put upon our trial before the queen, I think. 
Hold my hand and walk close beside me, but do not stare 
at me so hard. Is aught wrong with my dress ?” 

“Nothing,” answered Peter. “I stare because you 
look so beautiful in it. Could you not have worn a 
veil? Doubtless there are more marquises about this 
court.” 

“Only the Moors wear veils, Peter, and now we are 
Christians again. Listen — I think that none of them 
understand English. I have seen Inez, who asked after 
you very tenderly — nay, do not blush, it is unseemly in a 
man. Have you seen her also ? No — well, she escaped 


264 


MARGARET 


from Granada as she planned, and Betty is married to the 
marquis.’^ 

“It will never hold good,’^ answered Peter shaking his 
head, “being but a trick, and I fear that she will pay for it, 
poor woman ! Still, she gave us a start, though, so far as 
prisons go, I was better off in Granada than in that rat- 
trap.” 

“Yes,” answered Margaret innocently, “you had a 
garden to walk in there, had you not ? No, don’t be angry 
with me. Do you know what Betty did ? ” And she told 
him of how she had lifted her veil and kissed Morelia 
without being discovered. 

“That isn’t so wonderful,” said Peter, “since if they 
are painted up women look very much alike in a half-lit 
room ” 

“Or garden?” suggested Margaret. 

“What is wonderful,” went on Peter, scorning to take 
note of this interruption, “is that she could consent to kiss 
the man at all. The double-dealing scoundrel ! Has Inez 
told you how he treated her? The very thought of it 
makes me ill.” 

“Well, Peter, he didn’t ask you to kiss him, did he? And 
as for the wrongs of Inez, though doubtless you know 
more about them than I do, I think she has given him an 
orange for his pomegranate. But look, there is the 
Alcazar in front of us. Is it not a splendid castle? You 
know, it was built by the Moors.” 

“I don’t care who it was built by,” said Peter, “and it 
looks to me like any other castle, only larger. All I know 
about it is that I am to be tried there for knocking that 
ruffian on the head — and that perhaps this is the last we 
shall see of each other, as probably they will send me to 
the galleys, if they don’t do worse.” 


ISABELLA OF SPAIN 


265 


“ Oh! say no such thing. I never thought of it, it is not 
possible!” answered Margaret, her dark eyes filling with 
tears. 

“Wait till your marquis appears, pleading the case 
against us, and you will see what is or is not possible,” 
replied Peter with conviction. “Still, we have come 
through some storms, so let us hope for the best.” 

At that moment they reached the gate of the Alcazar, 
which they had approached from their prison through 
gardens of orange-trees, and soldiers came up and separated 
them. Next they were led across a court, where many 
people hurried to and fro, into a great marble-columned 
room glittering with gold, which was called the Hall of 
Justice. At the far end of this place, seated on a throne 
set upon a richly carpeted dais, and surrounded by lords 
and counsellors, sat a magnificently attired lady of middle 
age. She was blue-eyed and red-haired, with a fair- 
skinned, open countenance, but very reserved and quiet in 
her demeanor. 

“The Queen,” muttered the guard, saluting, as did Cas- 
sell and Peter, while Margaret curtseyed. 

A case had just been tried, and the queen Isabella, after 
consultation with her assessors, was delivering judgment 
in few words and a gentle voice. As she spoke her mild, 
blue eyes fell upon Margaret, and, held it would seem by 
her beauty, rested on her till they wandered off to the tall 
form of Peter and the dark, Jewish-looking Castell by 
him, at the sight of whom she frowned a little. 

That case was finished, and other suitors stood up in 
their turn, but the queen, waving her hand and still look- 
ing at Margaret, bent down and asked a question of one 
of the officers of the court, then gave an order, whereon the 
officer, rising, summoned “John Castell, Margaret Castell, 


266 


MARGARET 


and Peter Brome, all of England/’ to appear at the Bar 
and answer to the charge of murder of one Luiz of Basa, 
a soldier of the Holy Hermandad. 

At once they were brought forward, and stood in a line 
in front of the dais, while the officer began to read the 
charge against them. 

“Stay, friend,” interposed the queen, “these accused 
are subjects of our good brother, Henry of England, 
though one of them, I think” — and she glanced at Cas- 
tell — “was not born in England, or at any rate of Eng- 
lish blood, and may not understand our language. Ask 
them if they need an interpreter.” 

The question was put, and all of them answered that 
they could speak Spanish, though Peter added that he 
did so but indifferently. 

“You are the knight, I think, who is charged with the 
commission of this crime,” said Isabella, looking at him. 

“Your Majesty, I am not a knight, only a plain esquire, 
Peter Brome of Dedham in England. My father was a 
knight. Sir Peter Brome, but he fell at my side, fighting for 
Richard, on Bosworth Field, where I had this wound,” 
and he pointed to the scar upon his face, “but was not 
knighted for my pains.” 

Isabella smiled a little, then asked: 

“And how came you to Spain, Senor Peter Brome?” 

“Your Majesty,” answered Peter, Margaret helping 
from time to time when he did not know the Spanish words, 
“this lady at my side, the daughter of the merchant John 
Castell who stands by her, is my affianced ” 

“ Then you have won the love of a very beautiful maiden, 
Senor,” interrupted the queen, “but proceed.” 

“She and her cousin, the Senora Dene, were kidnapped 
in London by one who I understand is the nephew of the 








I CUT HIM DOWN, AND BY AIISFORTUNE KILLED HIM” 


ISABELLA OF SPAIN 


267 


King Ferdinand, and an envoy to the English Court, who 
passed there as the Senor d’ Aguilar, but who in Spain is 
the Marquis of Morelia.’^ 

“Kidnapped! and by Morelia!” exclaimed the queen. 

“Yes, your Majesty, cozened on board his ship and 
kidnapped. The Senor Castell and I followed them, and, 
boarding their vessel, tried to rescue them, but were ship- 
wrecked at Motril. The marquis carried them away to 
Granada, whither we followed also, I being sorely hurt in 
the shipwreck. There, in the palace of the marquis, we 
have lain prisoners many weeks, but at length escaped, 
purposing to come to Seville and seek the protection of 
your Majesties. On the road, while we were dressed as 
Moors, in which garb we compassed our escape, we were 
attacked by men that we thought were bandits, for we had 
been warned against such evil people. One of them rudely 
molested the Dona Margaret, and I cut him down, and 
by misfortune killed him, for which manslaughter I am 
here before you to-day. Your Majesty, I did not know 
that he was a soldier of the Holy Hermandad, and I pray 
you pardon my offence, which was done in ignorance, fear, 
and anger, for we are willing to pay compensation for this 
unhappy death.” 

Now some in the court exclaimed: 

“Well spoken, Englishman!” 

Then the queen said : 

“If all this tale be true, I am not sure that we should 
blame you over much, Senor Brome: but how know we 
that it is true? For instance, you said that the noble 
marquis stole two ladies, a deed of which I can scarcely 
think him capable. Where then is the other? 

“I believe,” answered Peter, “that she is now the wife 
of the Marquis of Morelia.” 


268 


MARGARET 


“The wife! Who bears witness that she is the wife? 
He has not advised us that he was about to marry, as is 
usual.’^ 

Then Bernaldez stood forward, stating his name and 
occupation, and that he was a correspondent of the Eng- 
lish merchant, John Castell, and producing the certificate 
of marriage signed by Morelia, Betty, and the priest 
Henriques, handed it up to the queen saying that he had 
received them in duplicate by a messenger from Gra- 
nada, and had delivered the other to the Archbishop 
of Seville. 

The queen, having looked at the paper, passed it to her 
assessors, who examined it very carefully, one of them 
saying that the form was not usual, and that it might be 
forged. 

The queen thought a little while, then said : 

“That is so, and in one way only can we know the truth. 
Let our warrant issue summoning before us our cousin, the 
noble Marquis of Morelia, the Senora Dene, who is said 
to be his wife, and the priest Henriques of Motril, who is 
said to have married them. When they have arrived, all 
of them, the king my husband and I will examine into the 
matter, and, until then, we will not suffer our minds to be 
prejudiced by hearing any more of this cause.’^ 

Now the governor of the prison stood forward, and 
asked what was to be done with the captives until the 
witnesses could be brought from Granada. The queen 
answered that they must remain in his charge, and be 
well treated, whereon Peter prayed that he might be given 
a better cell with fewer rats and more light. The queen 
smiled, and said that it should be so, but added that it 
would be proper that he should still be kept apart from the 
lady to whom he was affianced, who could dwell with her 


ISABELLA OF SPAIN 269 

father. Then, noting the sadness on their faces, she 
added : 

“Yet I think they may meet daily in the garden of the 
prison.’^ 

Margaret curtseyed and thanked her, whereon she said 
very graciously: 

“Come here, Senora, and sit by me a little,” and she 
pointed to a footstool at her side. “When I have done 
this business I desire a few words with you.” 

So Margaret was brought up upon the dais, and sat 
down at her Majesty’s left hand upon the broidered foot- 
stool, and very fair indeed she looked placed thus above 
the crowd, she whose beauty and whose bearing were 
so royal; but Castell and Peter were led away back to the 
prison, though, seeing so many gay lords about, the latter 
went unwillingly enough. 

A while later, when the cases were finished, the queen 
dismissed the court save for certain officers, who stood at a 
distance, and turning to Margaret, said: 

“Now, fair maiden, tell me your story, as one woman 
to another, and do not fear that anything you say will be 
made use of at the trial of your lover, since against you, 
at any rate at present, no charge is laid. Say, first, are 
you really the affianced of that tall gentleman, and has 
he really your heart?” 

“All of it, your Majesty,” answered Margaret, “and 
we have suffered much for each other’s sake.” Then in 
as few words as she could she told their tale, while the 
queen listened earnestly. 

“A strange story, indeed, and if it be all true, a shame- 
ful,” she said when Margaret had finished. “But how 
comes it that if Morelia desired to force you into marriage, 
he is now wed to your companion and cousin ? What are 


270 


MARGARET 


you keeping back from me?’’ and she glanced at her 
shrewdly. 

“Your Majesty,” answered Margaret, “I was ashamed 
to speak the rest, yet I will trust you and do so, praying 
your royal forgiveness if you hold that we, who were in 
desperate straits, have done what is wrong. My cousin, 
Betty Dene, has paid back Morelia in his own false gold. 
He won her heart and promised to marry her, and at the 
risk of her own life she took my place at the altar, thereby 
securing our escape.” 

“A brave deed, if a doubtful,” said the queen, “though I 
question whether such a marriage will be upheld. But 
that is a matter for the Church to judge of, and I must 
speak of it no more. Certainly it is hard to be angry with 
any of you. What did you say that Morelia promised 
you when he asked you to marry him in London?” 

“Your Majesty, he promised that he would lift me 
high, perhaps even” — and she hesitated — “to that seat 
in which you sit.” 

Isabella frowned, then laughed, and said as she looked 
her up and down: 

“You would fit it well, better than I do in truth. But 
what else did he say?” 

“Your Majesty, he said that not every one loves the 
king, his uncle; that he had many friends who remembered 
that his father was poisoned by the father of the king, who 
was Morelia’s grandfather; also, that his mother was a 
princess of the Moors, and that he might throw in his lot 
with theirs, or that there were other ways in which he 
could gain his end.” 

“So, so,” said the queen. “Well, though he is such a 
good son of the Church, and my lord is so fond of him, I 
never loved Morelia, and I thank you for your warning. 


ISABELLA OF SPAIN 


271 


But I must not speak to you of such high matters, though 
it seems that some have thought otherwise. Fair Margaret, 
have you aught to ask of me 

“Yes, your Majesty — that you will deal gently with 
my true love when he comes before you for trial, remember- 
ing that he is hot of head and strong of arm, and that such 
knights as he — for knightly is his blood — cannot brook 
to see their ladies mishandled by rough men, and the wrap- 
pings that shield them torn from off their bosoms. Also, 
I pray that I may be protected from Morelia, that he 
may not be allowed to touch or even to speak to me, who 
for all his rank and splendor hate him as though he were 
some poisoned snake.’’ 

“I have said that I must not prejudge your case, you 
beautiful English Margaret,” the queen answered with a 
smile, “yet I think that neither of those things you ask will 
cause justice to slip the bandage that is about her eyes. 
Go, and be at peace. If you have spoken truth to me, as 
I am sure you have, and Isabella of Spain can prevent it, 
the Sehor Brome’s punishment shall not be heavy, nor 
shall the shadow of the Marquis of Morelia, the base- 
born son of a prince and of some royal infidel” — these 
words she spoke with much bitterness — “so much as fall 
upon you, though I warn you that my lord the king loves 
the man, as is but natural, and will not condemn him lightly. 
Tell me one thing. This lover of yours is brave, is he 
not?” 

“Very brave,” answered Margaret, smiling. 

“And he can ride a horse and hold a lance, can he not, 
at any rate in your quarrel?” 

“Aye, your Majesty, and wield a sword too, as well as 
most knights, though he has been but lately sick. Some 
learned that on Bosworth Field.” 


272 


MARGARET 


“Good. Now farewell,” and she gave Margaret her 
hand to kiss. Then, calling two of her officers, she bade 
them conduct her back to the prison, and say that she 
should have liberty to send messages or to write to her, 
the queen, if she should so desire. 

On the night of that same day Morelia galloped into 
Seville. Indeed he should have been there long before, 
but misled by the story of the Moors who had escorted 
Peter, Margaret, and her father out of Granada, and seen 
them take the Malaga road, he travelled thither first, only 
to find no trace of them in that city. Then he returned 
and tracked them to Seville, where he was soon made 
acquainted with all that had happened. Amongst other 
things, he discovered that ten hours before swift messen- 
gers had been despatched to Granada, commanding his 
attendance and that of Betty, with whom he had gone 
through the form of marriage. 

On the following morning he asked an audience with 
the queen, but it was refused to him, and the king, his 
uncle, was away. Next he tried to win admission into 
the prison and see Margaret, only to find that neither his 
high rank and authority nor any bribe would suffice to 
unlock its doors. The queen had commanded otherwise, 
he was informed, and knew therefrom that in this matter 
he must reckon with Isabella as an enemy. Then he 
bethought him of revenge, and began a search for Inez 
and the priest Henriques, of Motril, only to find that the 
former had vanished, none knew whither, and the holy 
father was safe within the walls of the Inquisition, whence 
he was careful not to emerge, and where no layman, how- 
ever highly placed, could enter to lay a hand upon one of 
its officers. So, full of rage and disappointment, he took 


ISABELLA OF SPAIN 


273 


counsel of lawyers and friends, and prepared to defend 
the suit which he saw would be brought against him, 
hoping that chance might yet deliver Margaret into his 
hands. One good card he held, which now he deter- 
mined to play. Castell, as he knew, was a Jew, who for 
years had posed as a Christian, and for such as he there 
was no mercy in Seville. Perhaps for her father’s sake 
he might yet be able to work upon Margaret, whom now 
he desired to win more fiercely than ever before. 

At least it was certain that he would try this, or any 
other means, however base, rather than see her married 
to his rival, Peter Brome. Also there was the chance that 
this Peter might be condemned to imprisonment, or even 
to death, for the killing of a soldier of the Hermandad. 

So Morelia made him ready for the great struggle as 
best he could, and, since he could not stop her coming, 
awaited the arrival of Betty in Seville. 


18 


CHAPTER XXI 

BETTY STATES HER CASE 

Seven days had passed, during which time Margaret 
and her father had rested quietly in the prison, where, 
indeed, they dwelt more as guests than as captives. Thus 
they were allowed to receive what visitors they would, and 
among them Bemaldez, CastelPs agent, who told them 
of all that passed without. Through him they sent mes- 
sengers to meet Betty on her road and apprise her of how 
things stood, and of the trial in which her cause would be 
judged. 

Soon the messengers returned, stating that the “Mar- 
chioness of Morelia” was travelling in state, accompanied 
by a great retinue, that she thanked them for their tidings, j 
and hoped to be able to defend herself at all points. 

At this news Castell stared and Margaret laughed, for, 
although she did not know all the story, she was sure that 
in some way Betty had the mastery of Morelia, and would 
not be easily defeated, though how she came to be travel- 
ling with a great retinue she could not imagine. Still, 
fearing lest she should be attacked, or otherwise injured, 
she wrote a humble letter to the queen, praying that her 
cousin might be defended from all danger at the hands of 
any one whatsoever, until she had an opportunity of 
giving evidence before their Majesties. 

274 


BETTY STATES HER CASE 


275 


Within an hour came the answer that the lady was under 
the royal protection, and that a guard had been sent to 
escort her and her party, and to keep her safe from inter- 
ference of any sort; also, that for her greater comfort, 
quarters had been prepared for her in a fortress outside 
of Seville, which would be watched night and day, and 
whence she would be brought to the court. 

Peter was still kept apart from them, but each day at 
noon they were allowed to meet him in the walled garden 
of the prison, where they talked together to their heart’s 
content. Here, too, he exercised himself daily at all 
manly games, and especially at sword-play with some 
of the other prisoners, using sticks for swords. Further, 
he was allowed the use of his horse that he had ridden 
from Granada, on which he jousted in the yard of the 
castle with the governor and certain other gentlemen, 
proving himself better at that play than any of them. 
These things he did vigorously and with ardor, for Mar- 
garet had told him of the hint which the queen gave her, 
and he desired to get back his full strength, and to perfect 
himself in the handling of every arm which was used in 
Spain. 

So the time went by, until one afternoon the governor 
informed them that Peter’s trial was fixed for the morrow, 
and that they must accompany him to the court to be 
examined also upon all these matters. A little later came 
Bemaldez, who said that the king had returned and 
would sit with the queen, and that already this affair had 
made much stir in Seville, where there was much curiosity 
as to the story of Morelia’s marriage, of which many 
different tales were told. 

That Margaret and her father would be discharged he 
had little doubt, in which case their ship was ready for 


276 


MARGARET 


them; but of Peter’s chances he could say nothing, for 
they depended upon what view the king took of his offence, 
and though unacknowledged, Morelia was the king’s 
nephew, and had his ear. 

Afterwards they went down into the garden, and there 
found Peter, who had just returned from his jousting, 
flushed with exercise, and looking very manly and hand- 
some. Margaret took his hand and, walking aside, told 
him the news. 

“I am glad,” he answered, ^‘for the sooner this busi- 
ness is begun the sooner it will be done. “But, Sweet,” 
and here his face grew very earnest, “Morelia has much 
power in this land, and I have broken its law, so none 
know what the end will be. I may be condemned to 
death or imprisonment, or perhaps, if I am given the 
chance, with better luck I may fall fighting, in any of 
which cases we shall be separated for a while, or altogether. 
Should this be so, I pray that you will not stay here, either 
in the hope of rescuing me, or for other reasons; since 
while you are in Spain Morelia will not cease from his 
attempts to get hold of you, whereas in England you will 
be safe from him.” 

When Margaret heard these words she sobbed aloud, 
for the thought that harm might come to Peter seemed to 
choke her. 

“In all things I will do your bidding,” she said, “yet 
how can I leave you, dear, while you are ahve, and if, 
perchance, you should die, which may God prevent, how 
can I live on without you ? Rather shall I seek to follow 
you very swiftly.” 

“I do not desire that,” said Peter. “I desire that you 
should endure your days till the end, and come to meet 
me where I am in due season, and not before. I will add 


BETTY STATES HER CASE 


277 


this, that if in after years you should meet any worthy 
man, and have a mind to marry him, you should do so, 
for I know well that you will never forget me, your first 
love, and that beyond this world lie others where there 
are no marryings or giving in marriage. Let not my 
dead hand lie heavy upon you, Margaret.^’ 

“Yet,” she replied in gentle indignation, “heavy must 
it always he, since it is about my heart. Be sure of this, 
Peter, that if such dreadful ill should fall upon us, as you 
left me, so shall you find me, here or hereafter.” 

“So be it,” he said with a sigh of relief, for he could not 
bear to think of Margaret as the wife of some other man, 
even after he was gone, although his honest, simple nature, 
and fear lest her life might be made empty of all joy, 
caused him to say what he had said. 

Then behind the shelter of a flowering bush they em- 
braced each other as do those w^ho know not whether they 
will ever kiss again, and, the hour of sunset having come, 
parted as they must. 

On the following morning once more Castell and Mar- 
garet were led to the Hall of Justice in the Alcazar; but 
this time Peter did not go with them. The great court 
was already full of counsellors, officers, gentlemen, and 
ladies who had come from curiosity, and other folk con- 
nected with or interested in the case. As yet, however, 
Margaret could not see Morelia or Betty, nor had the king 
and queen taken their seats upon the throne. Peter was 
already there, standing before the bar with guards on 
either side of him, and greeted them with a smile and a 
nod as they were ushered to their chairs near by. Just 
as they reached them also trumpets were blown, and from 
the back of the hall, walking hand in hand, appeared 
their Majesties of Spain, Ferdinand and Isabella, whereat 


278 


MARGARET 


all the audience rose and bowed, remaining standing till 
they were seated on the thrones. 

The king, whom they now saw for the first time, was a 
thick-set, active man with pleasant eyes, a fair skin, and a 
broad forehead, but, as Margaret thought, somewhat sly- 
faced, the face of a man who never forgot his own interests 
in those of another. Like the queen, he was magnifi- 
cently attired in garments broidered with gold and the 
arms of Aragon, while in his hand he held a golden sceptre 
surmounted by a jewel, and about his waist, to show that 
he was a warlike king, he wore his long, cross-handled 
sword. Smilingly he acknowledged the homage of his 
subjects by lifting his hand to his cap and bowing. Then 
his eye fell upon the beautiful Margaret, and, turning, he 
put a question to the queen in a light, sharp voice, asking 
if that were the lady whom Morelia had married, and, if 
so, why in the name of heaven he wished to be rid of her. 

Isabella answered that she xmderstood that this was the 
senora whom he had desired to marry when he married 
some one else, as he alleged by mistake, but who was in 
fact affianced to the prisoner before them; a reply at which 
all who heard it laughed. 

At this moment the Marquis of Morelia, accompanied 
by his gentlemen and some long-gowned lawyers, appeared 
walking up the court, dressed in the black velvet that he 
always wore, and glittering with orders. Upon his head 
was a cap, also of black velvet, from which hung a great 
pearl, and this cap he did not remove even when he bowed 
to the king and queen, for he was one of the few grandees 
of Spain who had the right to remain covered before their 
Majesties. They acknowledged his salutation, Ferdi- 
nand with a friendly nod and Isabella with a cold bow, 
and he, too, took the seat that had been prepared for him. 




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BETTY STATES HER CASE 


279 

Just then there was a disturbance at the far end of the 
court, where one of its officers could be heard calling: 

“Way! Make way for the Marchioness of Morelia!’’ 
At the sound of this name the marquis, whose eyes were 
fixed on Margaret, frowned fiercely, rising from his seat 
as though to protest, then, at some whispered word from 
a lawyer behind him, sat down again. 

Now the crowd of spectators separated, and Margaret, 
turning to look down the long hall, saw a procession 
advancing up the lane between them, some clad in armor 
and some in white, Moorish robes blazoned with the 
scarlet eagle, the cognizance of Morelia. In the midst 
of them, her train supported by two Moorish women, 
walked a tall and beautiful lady, a coronet upon her brow, 
her fair hair outspread, a purple cloak hanging from her 
shoulders, half hiding that same splendid robe sewn with 
pearls which had been Morelia’s gift to Margaret, and 
about her white bosom the chain of pearls which he had 
presented to Betty in compensation for her injuries. 

Margaret stared and stared again, and her father at her 
side murmured : 

“It is our Betty! Truly, fine feathers make fine birds.” 
Yes, Betty it was without a doubt, though, remembering 
her in her humble, woollen dress at the old house in Hol- 
bom, it was hard to recognize the poor companion in this 
proud and magnificent lady, who looked as though all 
her life she had trodden the marble floors of courts, and 
consorted with nobles and with queens. Up the great 
hall she came, stately, imperturbable, looking neither to 
the right nor to the left, taking no note of the whisperings 
about her, no, nor even of Morelia or of Margaret, till she 
reached the open space in front of the bar where Peter 
and his guards, gazing with all their eyes, hastened to 


28 o 


MARGARET 


make place for her. There she curtseyed thrice, twice to 
the queen, and once to the king, her consort; then, turning, 
bowed to the marquis, who fixed his eyes upon the ground 
and took no note, bowed to Castell and Peter, and lastly, 
advancing to Margaret, gave her her cheek to kiss. This 
Margaret did with becoming humility, whispering in her 
ear: 

‘‘How fares your Grace?” 

“Better than you would in my shoes,” whispered 
Betty back with ever so slight a trembling of her left 
eyehd; while Margaret heard the king mutter to the 
queen : 

“A fine peacock of a woman. Look at her fig- 
ure and those big eyes. Morelia must be hard to 
please.” 

“Perhaps he prefers swans to peacocks,” answered the 
queen in the same voice with a glance at Margaret, whose 
quieter and more refined beauty seemed to gain by con- 
trast with that of her nobly built and dazzling-skinned 
cousin. Then she motioned to Betty to take the seat 
prepared for her, which she did, with her suite standing 
behind her and an interpreter at her side. 

“I am somewhat bewildered,” said the king, glancing 
from Morelia to Betty and from Margaret to Peter, for 
evidently the humor of the situation did not escape him. 
“What is the exact case that we have to try?” 

Then one of the legal assessors, or alcaldes, rose and 
said that the matter before their Majesties was a charge 
against the Englishman at the bar of killing a certain 
soldier of the Holy Hermandad, but that there seemed to 
be other matters mixed up with it. 

“So I gather,” answered the King; “for instance, an 
accusation of the carrying off of subjects of a friendly 


BETTY STATES HER CASE 


281 


Power out of the territory of that Power; a suit for nullity 
of a marriage, and a cross suit for the declaration of the 
validity of the said marriage — and the holy saints know 
what besides. Well, one thing at a time. Let us try this 
tall Englishman.” 

So the case was opened against Peter by a public prose- 
cutor, who restated it as it had been laid before the queen. 
The Captain Arrano gave his evidence as to the killing of 
the soldier, but, in cross-examination by Peter’s advocate, 
admitted, for evidently he bore no malice against the 
prisoner, that the said soldier had roughly handled the 
Dona Margaret, and that the said Peter, being a stranger 
to the country, might very well have taken them for a 
troop of bandits, or even Moors. Also, he added, that he 
could not say that the Englishman had intended to kill 
the soldier. 

Then Castell and Margaret gave their evidence, the 
latter with much modest sweetness. Indeed, when she 
explained that Peter was her affianced husband, to whom 
she was to have been wed on the day after she had been 
stolen away from England, and that she had cried out to 
him for help when the dead soldier caught hold of her and 
rent away her veil, there was a murmur of sympathy, and 
the king and queen began to talk with each other without 
paying much heed to her further words. 

Next they spoke to two of the judges who sat with them, 
after which the king held up his hand and announced that 
they had come to a decision on the case. It was, that, 
under the circumstances, the Englishman was justified in 
cutting down the soldier, especially as there was nothing 
to show that he meant to kill him, or that he knew that he 
belonged to the Holy Hermandad. He would, therefore, 
be discharged on the condition that he paid a sum of 


282 


MARGARET 


money, which, indeed, it appeared had already been paid 
to the man’s widow, in compensation for the man’s death, 
and a further small sum for Masses to be said for the 
welfare of his soul. 

Peter began to give thanks for this judgment; but while 
he was still speaking the king asked if any of those present 
wished to proceed in further suits. Instantly, Betty rose 
and said that she did. Then, through her interpreter, 
she stated that she had received the royal commands to 
attend before their Majesties, and was now prepared to 
answer any questions or charges that might be laid against 
her. 

“What is your name, Sehora?” asked the king. 

“Elizabeth, Marchioness of Morelia, bom Elizabeth 
Dene, of the ancient and gentle family of Dene, a native 
of England,” answered Betty in a clear and decided voice. 

The king bowed, then asked: 

“Does any one dispute this title and description?” 

“I do,” answered the Marquis of Morelia, speaking 
for the first time. 

“On what grounds. Marquis?” 

“On eveiy^ ground,” he answered. “She is not the 
Marchioness of Morelia, inasmuch as I went through the 
ceremony of marriage with her believing her to be another 
woman. She is not of ancient and gentle family, since 
she was a sen^ant in the house of the merchant Castell 
yonder, in London.” 

“That proves nothing. Marquis,” interrupted the king, 
“my family may, I think, be called ancient and gentle, 
which you will be the last to deny, yet I have played the 
part of a servant on an occasion which I think the queen 
here will remember” — an allusion at which the audience, 
who knew well enough to what it referred, laughed audibly. 


BETTY STATES HER CASE 


283 


as did her Majesty.^ “The marriage and rank are mat- 
ters for proof,” went on the king, “if they are questioned; 
but is it alleged that this lady has committed any crime 
which prevents her from pleading?” 

“None,” answered Betty quickly, “except that of being 
poor, and the crime, if it is one, as it may be, of having 
married that man, the Marquis of Morelia,” whereat the 
audience laughed again. 

“Well, Madam, you do not seem to be poor now,” 
remarked the king, looking at her gorgeous and bejewelled 
apparel, “and here we are more apt to think marriage a 
folly than a crime,” a light saying at which the queen 
frowned a little. “But,” he added quickly, “set out your 
case. Madam, and forgive me if, until you have done so, 
I do not call you Marchioness.” 

“ Here is my case, sire,” said Betty, producing the cer- 
tificate of marriage and handing it up for inspection. 

The judges and their Majesties inspected it, the queen 
remarking that a duplicate of this document had already 
been submitted to her and passed on to the proper author- 
ities. 

“Is the priest who solemnized the marriage present?” 
asked the king; whereon Bemaldez, Gastellos agent, rose 
and said that he was, though he neglected to add that his 
presence had been secured for no mean sum. 

One of the judges ordered that he should be called, and 
presently the fox-faced Father Henriques, at whom the 


' When travelling from Saragossa to Valladolid to be married to 
Isabella, Ferdinand was obliged to pass himself off as a valet. Pres- 
cott says; “ The greatest circumspection, therefore;, was necessary. The 
party journeyed chiefly in the night; Ferdinand assumed the disguise 
of a servant and when they halted on the road took care of the mules 
and served his companions at table.” 


284 


MARGARET 


marquis glared angrily, appeared bowing, and was sworn 
in the usual form, and, on being questioned, stated that he 
had been priest at Motril, and chaplain to the Marquis of 
Morelia, but was now a secretary of the Holy Office at 
Seville. In answer to further questions he said that, 
apparently by the bridegroom’s own wish, and with his 
full consent, on a certain date at Granada, he had married 
the marquis to the lady who stood before them, and whom 
he knew to be named Betty Dene, also, that at her request, 
since she was anxious that proper record should be kept 
of her marriage, he had written the certificates which the 
court had seen, which certificates the marquis and others 
had signed immediately after the ceremony in his private 
chapel at Granada. Subsequently, he had left Granada 
to take up his appointment as a secretary to the Inquisi- 
tion at Seville, which had been conferred on him by the 
ecclesiastical authorities in reward of a treatise which he 
had written upon heresy. That was all he knew about 
the affair. 

Now, Morelia’s advocate rose to cross-examine, asking 
him who had made the arrangements for the marriage. 
He answered that the marquis had never spoken to him 
directly on the subject — at least he had never mentioned 
to him the name of the lady; the Senora Inez arranged 
everything. 

Now the queen broke in, asking where was the Senora 
Inez, and who she was. The priest replied that the 
Senora Inez was a Spanish woman, one of the marquis’s 
household at Granada, whom he made use of in all con- 
fidential affairs. She was young and beautiful, but he 
could say no more about her. As to where she was now 
he did not know, although they had ridden together to 
Seville. Perhaps the marquis knew. 


BETTY STATES HER CASE 


285 


Now the priest was ordered to stand down, and Betty- 
tendered herself as a witness, and through her interpreter 
told the court the story of her connection with Morelia. 
She said that she had met him in London when she was a 
member of the household of the Senor Castell, and that at 
once he began to make love to her and won her heart. 
Subsequently, he suggested that she should elope with 
him to Spain, promising to marry her at once, in proof of 
which she produced the letter he had written, which was 
translated and handed up for the inspection of the court 
— a very awkward letter, as they evidently thought, al- 
though it was not signed with the writer’s real name. 
Next, Betty explained the trick by which she and her 
cousin Margaret were brought on board his ship, and that 
when they arrived there the marquis refused to marry 
her, alleging that he was in love with her cousin and not 
with her — a statement which she took to be an excuse 
to avoid the fulfilment of his promise. She could not say 
why he had carried off her cousin Margaret also, but sup- 
posed that it was because, having once brought her upon 
the ship, he did not know how to be rid of her. 

Then she described the voyage to Spain, saying that 
during that voyage she kept the marquis at a distance, 
since there was no priest to marry them; also, she was sick 
and much ashamed, who had involved her cousin and 
mistress in this trouble. She told how the Senors Castell 
and Brome had followed in another vessel, and boarded 
the caravel in a storm; also of the shipwreck and their 
journey to Granada as prisoners, and of their subsequent 
life there. Finally, she described how Inez came to her 
with proposals of marriage, and how she bargained that 
if she consented, her cousin, the Senor Castell, and the 
Senor Brome should go free. They went accordingly. 


286 


MARGARET 


and the marriage took place as arranged, the marquis first 
embracing her publicly in the presence of various people 
— namely, Inez and his two secretaries, who, except Inez, 
were present, and could bear witness to the truth of what 
she said. 

After the marriage and the signing of the certificates 
she had accompanied him to his own apartments, which 
she had never entered before, and there, to her astonish- 
ment, in the morning, he announced that he must go a 
journey upon their Majesties’ business. Before he went, 
however, he gave her a written authority, which she pro- 
duced, to receive his rents and manage his matters in 
Granada during his absence, which authority she read to 
the gathered household before he left. She had obeyed 
him accordingly, until she had received the royal command, 
receiving moneys, giving her receipt for the same, and 
generally occupying the unquestioned position of mistress 
of his house. 

“We can well believe it,” said the king drily. “And 
now. Marquis, what have you to answer to all this?” 

“I will answer presently,” replied Morelia, who trem- 
bled with rage. “First, suffer that my advocate cross- 
examines this woman.” 

So the advocate cross-examined, though it cannot be 
said that he had the better of Betty. First, he questioned 
her as to her statement that she was of ancient and gentle 
family, whereon Betty overwhelmed the court with a list 
of her ancestors, the first of whom, a certain Sieur Dene 
de Dene, had come to England with the Norman Duke, 
William the Conqueror. After him, so she still swore, 
the said Denes de Dene had risen to great rank and power, 
having been the favorites of the kings of England, and 
fought for them generation after generation. 


BETTY STATES HER CASE 


287 


By slow degrees she came down to the Wars of the 
Roses, in which she said her grandfather had been attainted 
for his loyalty, and lost his land and titles, so that her 
father, whose only child she was — being now the repre- 
sentative of the noble family. Dene de Dene — fell into 
poverty and a humble place in life. However, he married 
a lady of even more distinguished race than his own, a 
direct descendant of a noble Saxon family, far more an- 
cient in blood than the upstart Normans. At this point, 
while Peter and Margaret listened amazed, at a hint from 
the queen, the bewildered court interfered through the 
head alcalde, praying her to cease from the history of her 
descent, which they took for granted was as noble as any 
in England. 

Next, she was examined as to her relations with Morelia 
in London, and told the tale of his wooing with so much 
detail and imaginative power that in the end that also 
was left unfinished. So it was with everything. Clever 
as Morelia ^s advocate might be, sometimes in English 
and sometimes in the Spanish tongue, Betty overwhelmed 
him with words and apt answers, until, able to make 
nothing of her, the poor man sat down wiping his brow 
and cursing her beneath his breath. 

Then the secretaries were sworn, and after them various 
members of Morelia’s household, who, although some- 
what unwillingly, confirmed all that Betty had said, as to 
his embracing her with lifted veil and the rest. So at 
length Betty closed her case, reserv^ing the right to 
address the court after she had heard that of the 
marquis. 

Now, the king, queen, and their assessors consulted 
for a little while, for evidently there was a division of 
opinion among them, some thinking that the case should 


288 


MARGARET 


be stopped at once and referred to another tribunal, and 
others that it should go on. At length the queen was 
heard to say that at least the Marquis of Morelia should 
be allowed to make his statement, as he might be able to 
prove that all this story was a fabrication, and that he was 
not even at Granada at the time when the marriage was 
alleged to have taken place. 

The king and the alcaldes assenting, the marquis 1 
was sworn and told his story, admitting that it was ' 
not one which he wished to repeat in public. He 
narrated how he had first met Margaret, Betty, and 
Peter at a public ceremony in London, and had then 
and there fallen in love with Margaret, and accom- 
panied her home to the house of her father, the mer- 
chant John Castell. 

Subsequently, he discovered that this Castell, who had 
fled from Spain with his father in childhood, was that 
lowest of mankind, an unconverted Jew who posed as a 
Christian (at this statement there was a great sensation in 
court, and the queen’s face hardened), although it is true 
that he had married a Christian lady, and that his daughter 
had been baptized and brought up as a Christian, of which 
faith she was a loyal member. Nor did she know — as 
he believed — that her father was a Jew, since, otherwise, 
he would not have continued to seek her as his wife. 
Their Majesties would be aware, he went on, that, owing 
to reasons with which they were acquainted, he had 
means of getting at the truth of these matters concerning 
the Jews in England, as to which, indeed, he had already 
written to them, although, owing to his shipwreck and to 
the pressure of his private affairs, he had not yet made his 
report on his embassy in person. 

Continuing, he said that he admitted that he had made 


BETTY STATES HER CASE 


289 


love to the serving-woman, Betty, in order to gain access 
to Margaret, whose father mistrusted him, knowing 
something of his mission. She was a person of no 
character. 

Here Betty rose and said in a clear voice : 

“I declare the Marquis of Morelia to be a knave and a 
liar. There is more good character in my little finger than 
in his whole body, and,’^ she added, “than in that of his 
mother before him” — an allusion at which the marquis 
flushed, while, satisfied for the present with this home- 
thrust, Betty sat down. 

He had proposed to Margaret, but she was not willing 
to marry him, as he found that she was affianced to a 
distant cousin of hers, the Senor Peter Brome, a swash- 
buckler who was in trouble for the killing of a man in 
London, as he had killed the soldier of the Holy Her- 
mandad in Spain. Therefore, in his despair, being 
deeply enamored of her, and knowing that he could offer 
her great place and fortune, he conceived the idea of 
carrying her off, and to do so was obliged, much against 
his will, to abduct Betty also. 

So after many adventures they came to Granada, where 
he was able to show the Dona Margaret that the Senor 
Peter Brome was employing his imprisonment in making 
love to that member of his household, Inez, who had been 
spoken of, but now could not be found. 

Here Peter, who could bear this no longer, also rose 
and called him a liar to his face, saying that if he had the 
opportunity he would prove it on his body, but was ordered 
by the king to sit down and be silent. 

Having been convinced of her lover^s unfaithfulness, the 
marquis went on, the Dona Margaret had at length con- 
sented to become his wife on condition that her father. 


19 


290 


MARGARET 


the Senor Brome, and her ser\^ant, Betty Dene, were 
allowed to escape from Granada 

“ Where, remarked the queen, “you had no right to 
detain them. Marquis. Except, perhaps, the father, John 
Castell,” she added significantly. 

Where, he admitted with sorrow, he had no right to 
detain them. 

“Therefore,’^ w^nt on the queen acutely, “there was no 
consideration for this promise of marriage,’’ — a point at 
which the lawyers nodded approvingly. 

The marquis submitted that there was a consideration; 
that at any rate the Dona Margaret wished it. On the 
day arranged for the wedding the prisoners were let go, 
disguised as Moors, but he now knew that through the 
trickery of the woman Inez, whom he believed had been 
bribed by Castell and his fellow- Jews, the Dona Mar- 
garet escaped in place of her servant, Betty, with whom 
he subsequently went through the form of marriage, 
believing her to be Margaret. 

As regards the embrace before the ceremony, it took 
place in a shadowed room, and he thought that Betty’s 
face and hair must have been painted and dyed to resemble 
those of Margaret. For the rest, he was certain that the 
ceremonial cup of wine that he drank before he led the 
woman to the altar was drugged, since he only remem- 
bered the marriage itself very dimly, and after that nothing 
at all until he woke upon the following morning with an 
aching brow to see Betty sitting by him. As for the power 
of administration which she produced, being perfectly 
mad at the time with rage and disappointment, and sure 
that if he stopped there any longer he should commit the 
crime of killing this woman who had deceived him so 
cruelly, he gave it that he might escape from her. Their 


BETTY STATES HER CASE 


291 


Majesties would notice also that it was in favor of the 
Marchioness of Morelia. As this marriage was null and 
void, there was no Marchioness of Morelia. Therefore, 
the document was null and void also. That was the 
truth, and all he had to say. 


CHAPTER XXII 

THE DOOM OF JOHN CASTELL 

His evidence finished, the Marquis of Morelia sat down, 
whereon, the king and queen having whispered together, 
the head alcalde asked Betty if she had any questions to 
put to him. She rose with much dignity, and through her 
interpreter said in a quiet voice: 

“Yes, a great many. Yet she would not debase her- 
self by asking a single one until the stain which he had 
cast upon her was washed away, which she thought could 
only be done in blood. He had alleged that she was a 
woman of no character, and he had further alleged that 
their marriage was null and void. Being of the sex she 
was, she could not ask him to make good his assertions at 
the sword’s point, therefore, as she believed she had the 
right to do according to all the laws of honor, she asked 
leave to seek a champion — if an unfriended woman 
could find one in a strange land — to uphold her fair 
name against this base and cruel slander.” 

Now, in the silence that followed her speech, Peter rose 
and said : 

“I ask the permission of your Majesties to be that 
champion. Your Majesties will note that according to 
his own story I have suffered from this marquis the bitterest 

292 


THE DOOM OF JOHN CASTELL 


293 


wrong that one man can receive at the hands of another. 
Also, he has lied, in saying that I am not true to my affi- 
anced lady, the Dona Margaret, and surely I have a right 
to avenge the lie upon him. Lastly, I declare that I be- 
lieve the Senora Betty to be a good and upright woman, 
upon whom no shadow of shame has ever fallen, and, as 
her countryman and relative, I desire to uphold her good 
name before all the world. I am a foreigner here with 
few friends, or none, yet I cannot believe that your Majes- 
ties will withhold from me the right of battle which all 
over the world in such a case one gentleman may demand 
of another. I challenge the Marquis of Morelia to mortal 
combat without mercy to the fallen, and here is the proof 
of it.^’ 

Then, stepping across the open space before the bar, 
he drew the leathern gauntlet off his hand and threw it 
straight into Morelia’s face, knowing that after such an 
insult he could not choose but fight. 

With an oath Morelia snatched at his sword; but, be- 
fore he could draw it, officers of the court threw them- 
selves on him, and the king’s stern voice was heard 
commanding them to cease their brawling in the royal 
presences. 

‘‘I ask your pardon. Sire,” gasped Morelia, ‘‘but you 
have seen what this Englishman did to me, a grandee of 
Spain.” 

“Yes,” broke in the queen, “but we have also heard 
what you, a grandee of Spain, did to this gentleman of 
England, and the charge you brought against him, which, 
it seems, the Dona Margaret does not believe.” 

“In truth, no, your Majesty,” said Margaret. “Let me 
be sworn also, and I can explain much of what the marquis 
has told to you. I never wished to marry him or any man, 


294 


MARGARET 


save this one,” and she touched Peter on the arm, “and 
anything that he or I may have done, we did to escape 
the evil net in which we were snared.” 

“We believe it,” answered the queen with a smile, then 
fell to consulting with the king and the alcaldes. 

For a long time they debated in voices so low that none 
could hear what they said, looking now at one and now at 
another of the parties to this strange suit. Also, some 
priest was called into their council, which Margaret thought 
a bad omen. At length they made up their minds, and in 
a low, quiet voice and measured words her Majesty, as 
Queen of Castile, gave the judgment of them all. Ad- 
dressing herself first to Morelia, she said: 

“ My lord Marquis, you have brought very grave charges 
against the lady who claims to be your wife, and the 
Englishman whose affianced bride you admit you snatched 
away by fraud and force. This gentleman, on his own 
behalf and on behalf of these ladies, has challenged you 
to a combat to the death in a fashion that none can mis- 
take. Do you accept his challenge?” 

“I would accept it readily enough, your Majesty,” 
answered Morelia in sullen tones, “since heretofore none 
have doubted my courage; but I must remember that I 
am” — and he paused, then added — “what your Majes- 
ties know me to be, a grandee of Spain, and something 
more, wherefore it is scarcely lawful for me to cross swords 
with a Jew-merchant’s clerk, for that was this man’s high 
rank and office in England.” 

“You could cross them with me on your ship, the San 
Antonio exclaimed Peter bitterly, “why then are you 
ashamed to finish what you were not ashamed to begin? 
Moreover, I tell you that in love or war I hold myself the 
equal of any woman-thief and bastard in this kingdom, 


THE DOOM OF JOHN CASTELL 


295 

who am one of a name that has been honored in my 
own.” 

Now again the king and queen spoke together of this 
question of rank — no small one in that age and country. 
Then Isabella said : 

“It is true that a grandee of Spain cannot be asked to 
meet a simple foreign gentleman in single combat. There- 
fore, since he has thought fit to raise it, we uphold the 
objection of the Marquis of Morelia, and declare that this 
challenge is not binding on his honor. Yet we note his 
willingness to accept the same, and are prepared to do 
what we can to make the matter easy, so that it may not 
be said that a Spaniard, who has wrought wrong to an 
Englishman, and been asked openly to make the amend 
of arms in the presence of his sovereigns, was debarred 
from so doing by the accident of his rank. Senor Peter 
Brome, if you will receive it at our hands, as others of 
your nation have been proud to do, we propose, believ- 
ing you to be a brave and loyal man of gentle birth, 
to confer upon you the knighthood of the Order of 
St. James, and thereby and therein the right to consort 
as equal, or to fight as equal, any noble of Spain, unless 
he should be of the right blood-royal, to which place we 
think the most puissant and excellent Marquis of Morelia 
lays no claim.” 

“I thank your Majesties,” said Peter astonished, “for 
the honor that you would do to me, which, had it not been 
for the fact that my father chose the wrong side on Bos- 
worth Field, being of a race somewhat obstinate in the 
matter of royalty, I should not have needed to accept from 
your Majesties. As it is I am very grateful, since now the 
noble marquis need not feel debased in settling our long 
quarrel as he would desire to do.” 


296 


MARGARET 


“Come hither and kneel down, Sehor Peter Brome,’^ 
said the queen when he had finished speaking. 

He obeyed, and Isabella, borrowing his sword from the 
king, gave him the accolade by striking him thrice upon 
the right shoulder and saying: 

“Rise, Sir Peter Brome, Knight of the most noble Order 
of Saint lago, and by creation a Don of Spain.’’ 

He rose, he bowed, retreating backwards as was the 
custom, and thereby nearly falling off the dais, which 
some people thought a good omen for Morelia. As he 
went the king said: 

“Our Marshal, Sir Peter, will arrange the time and 
manner of your combat with the marquis as shall be most 
convenient to you both. Meanwhile, we command you 
both that no unseemly word or deed should pass between 
you, who must soon meet face to face to abide the judgment 
of God in battle a Voutrance. Now, since one of you must 
die so shortly, we entreat you to prepare your souls to ap- 
pear before His judgment-seat. We have spoken.” 

Now the audience appeared to think that the court was 
ended, for many of them began to rise; but the queen held 
up her hand and said: 

“There remain other matters on which we must give 
judgment. The senora here,” and she pointed to Betty, 
“asks that her marriage should be declared valid, or so we 
understand, and the Marquis of Morelia asks that his 
marriage with the said senora should be declared void, 
or so we understand. Now this is a question over which 
we claim no power, it having to do with a sacrament of the 
Church. Therefore we leave it to his Holiness the Pope 
in person, or by his legate, to decide according to his wis- 
dom in such manner as may seem best to him, if the parties 
concerned should choose to lay their suit before him. 


THE DOOM OF JOHN CASTEEL 


297 


Meanwhile, we declare and decree that the senora born 
Elizabeth Dene shall everywhere throughout our domin- 
ions, until or unless his Holiness the Pope shall decide 
to the contrary, be received and acknowledged as the 
Marchioness of Morelia, and that during his lifetime her 
reputed husband shall make due provision for her mainte- 
nance, and that after his death, should no decision have 
been come to by the court of Rome upon her suit, she shall 
inherit and enjoy that proportion of his lands and property 
which belongs to a wife under the laws of this realm.” 

Now, while Betty bowed her thanks to their Majesties 
till the jewels on her bodice rattled, and Morelia scowled 
till his face looked as black as a thunder- cloud above the 
mountains, the audience, whispering to each other, once 
more rose to disperse. Again the queen held up her hand, 
for the judgment was not yet finished. 

“ We have a question to ask of the noble Sir Peter Brome 
and the Dona Margaret, his affianced. Is it still their 
desire to take each other in marriage?” 

Now Peter looked at Margaret, and Margaret looked 
at Peter, and there was that in their eyes which both of 
them understood, for he answered in a clear voice : 

“Your Majesty, that is the dearest wish of both of us.” 

The queen smiled a little, then asked : 

“And do you, Senor John Castell, consent and allow 
your daughter’s marriage to this knight?” 

“I do, indeed,” he answered gravely. “Had it not 
been for this man here,” and he glanced with bitter hatred 
at Morelia, “they would have been united long ago, and 
to that end,” he added with meaning, “such little prop- 
erty as I possessed has been made over to trustees in Eng- 
land for their benefit and that of their children. Therefore 
I am henceforward dependent upon their charity.” 


298 


MARGARET 


“Good/* said the queen. “Then one question re- 
mains to be put, and only one. Is it your wish, both of 
you, that you should be wed before the single combat be- 
tween the Marquis of Morelia and Sir Peter Brome? 
Remember, Dona Margaret, before you answer, that in 
this event you may soon be made a widow, and that if you 
postpone the ceremony you may never be a wife?’* 

Now Margaret and Peter spoke a few words together, 
then the former answered for them both. 

“Should my lord fall,** she said in her sweet voice that 
trembled as she uttered the words, “ in either case my heart 
will be widowed and broken. Let me live out my days, 
therefore, bearing his name, that, knowing my deathless 
grief, none may henceforth trouble me with their love, 
who desire to remain his bride in heaven.** 

“Well spoken,** said the queen. “We decree that here 
in our cathedral of Seville you twain shall be wed on the 
same day, but before the Marquis of Morelia and you. Sir 
Peter Brome, meet in single combat. Further, lest harm 
should be attempted against either of you,** and she looked 
sideways at Morelia, “you, Sehora Margaret, shall be my 
guest until you leave my care to become a bride, and you. 
Sir Peter, shall return to lodge in the prison whence you 
came, but with liberty to see whom you will, and to go 
when and where you will, but under our protection, lest 
some attempt should be made on you.** 

She ceased, whereon suddenly the king began speaking 
in his sharp, thin voice. 

“ Having settled these matters of chivalry and marriage,** 
he said, “there remains another which I will not leave to 
the gentle lips of our sovereign Lady, that has to do with 
something higher than either of them — namely, the eter- 
nal welfare of men’s souls, and of the Church of Christ on 


THE DOOM OF JOHN CASTEEL 


299 


earth. It has been declared to us that the man yonder, 
John Castell, merchant of London, is that accursed thing, 
a Jew, who for the sake of gain has all his life feigned to be 
a Christian, and, as such, deceived a Christian woman into 
marriage; that he is, moreover, of our subjects, having 
been born in Spain, and therefore amenable to the civil and 
spiritual jurisdiction of this realm.” 

He paused, while Margaret and Peter stared at each other 
affrighted. Only Castell stood silent and unmoved, though 
he guessed what must follow better than either of them. 

We judge him not,” went on the king, “who claim no 
authority in such high matters, but we do what we must 
do — we commit him to the Holy Inquisition, there to take 
his trial.” 

Now Margaret cried aloud. Peter stared about him as 
though for help, which he knew could never come, feeling 
more afraid than ever he had been in all his life, and for 
the first time that day Morelia smiled. At least he would 
be rid of one enemy. But Castell went to Margaret and 
kissed her tenderly. Then he shook Peter by the hand, 
saying: 

“Kill that thief,” and he looked at Morelia, “as I know 
you will, and would if there were ten as bad at his back. 
And be a good husband to my girl, as I know you will also, 
for I shall ask an account of you of these matters when we 
meet where there is neither Jew nor Christian, priest nor 
king. Now be silent, and bear what must be borne as I 
do, for I have a word to say before I leave you and the 
world. 

“Your Majesties, I make no plea for myself, and when 
I am questioned before your Inquisition the task will be 
easy, for I desire to hide nothing, and will tell the truth, 
though not from fear or because I shrink from pain. 


300 


MARGARET 


Your Majesties, you have told us that these two, who, at 
least, are good enough Christians from their birth, shall 
be wed. I would ask you if any spiritual crime, or sup- 
posed crime, of mine will be allowed to work their separa- 
tion, or to their detriment in any way whatsoever. 

“ On that point,’’ answered the queen quickly, as though 
she wished to get in her words before the king or any one 
else could speak, “you have our royal word, John Castell. 
Your case is apart from their case, and nothing of which 
you may be convicted shall affect them in person or,” she 
added slowly, “in property.” 

“A large promise,” muttered the king. 

“It is my promise,” she answered decidedly, “and it 
shall be kept at any cost. These two shall marry, and if 
Sir Peter lives through the fray they shall depart from 
Spain unharmed, nor shall any fresh charge be brought 
against them in any court of the realm, nor shall they 
be persecuted or proceeded against in any other realm 
or on the high seas at our instance or that of our 
officers. Let my words be written down, and one copy 
of them signed and filed and another copy given to the 
Dona Margaret.” 

“Your Majesty,” said Castell, “I thank you, and now, 
if die I must, I shall die happy. Yet I make bold to tell 
you that had you not spoken them it was my purpose to 
kill myself, here before your eyes, since that is a sin for 
which none can be asked to suffer save the sinner. Also, 
I say that this Inquisition which you have set up shall eat 
out the heart of Spain and bring her greatness to the dust 
of death. The torture and the misery of those Jews, than 
whom you have no better or more faithful subjects, shall 
be avenged on the heads of your children’s children for so 
long as their blood endures.” 


THE DOOM OF JOHN CASTELL 


301 


He finished speaking, and, while something that sounded 
like a gasp of fear rose from that crowded court, as the 
meaning of his bold words came home to his auditors, the 
crowd behind him separated and there appeared, walking 
two by two, a file of masked and hooded monks and a 
guard of soldiers, all of whom doubtless were in waiting. 
They came to John Castell, they touched him on the 
shoulder, they closed around him, hiding him as it were 
from the world, and in the midst of them he vanished 
away. 

Peter’s memories of that strange day in the Alcazar 
at Seville always remained somewhat dim and blurred. 
It was not wonderful. Within the space of a few hours 
he had been tried for his life and acquitted. He had seen 
Betty, transformed from a humble companion into a 
magnificent and glittering marchioness, as a chrysalis is 
transformed into a butterfly, urge her strange suit against 
the husband who had tricked her, and whom she had 
tricked, and, for the while at any rate, more than hold her 
own, thanks to her ready wit and native strength of char- 
acter. 

As her champion, and that of Margaret, he had chal- 
lenged Morelia to single combat, and when his defiance was 
refused on the ground of his lack of rank, by the favor of 
the great Isabella, who wished to use him as her instru- 
ment, doubtless because of those secret ambitions of Mo- 
relia’s which Margaret had revealed to her, he had been 
suddenly advanced to the high station of a Knight of the 
Order of St. James of Spain, to which, although he cared 
little for it, otherwise he might vainly have striven to come. 
More, and better far, the desire of his heart would at 
length be attained, for now it would be granted to him to 


302 


MARGARET 


'T 


meet his enemy, the man whom he hated with just cause, 
upon a fair field, without favor shown to one or the other, 
and to fight him to the death. He had been promised, 
further, that within some few days Margaret should be 
given to him as wife, although it well might be that she 
would keep that name but for a single hour, and that until 
then they both should dwell safe from Morelia’s violence 
and treachery; also that, whatever chanced, no suit should 
lie against them in any land for aught that they did or had 
done in Spain. 

Lastly, when all seemed safe save for that chance of 
war, whereof, having been bred to such things, he took but 
little count; when his cup, emptied at length of mire and 
sand, was brimming full with the good red wine of battle 
and of love, when it was at his very lips indeed. Fate had 
turned it to poison and to gall. Castell, his bride’s father, 
and the man he loved, had been haled to the vaults of the 
Inquisition, whence he knew well he would come forth but 
once more, dressed in a yellow robe “relaxed to the civil 
arm,” to perish slowly in the fires of the Quemadero, the 
place of burning of heretics. 

What would his conquest over Morelia avail if Heaven 
should give him power to conquer? What kind of a 
bridal would that be that was sealed and consecrated by 
the death of the bride’s father in the torturing fires of the 
Inquisition? How would they ever get the smell of the 
smoke of that sacrifice out of their nostrils ? Castell was 
a brave man; no torments would make him recant. It was 
doubtful even if he would be at the pains to deny his faith, 
he who had only been baptized a Christian by his father 
for the sake of policy, and suffered the fraud to continue 
for the purposes of his business, and that he might win 
and keep a Christian wife. No, Castell was doomed, and 


THE DOOM OF JOHN CASTELL 


303 


he could no more protect him from priest and king than a 
dove can protect its nest from a pair of hungry peregrines. 

Oh, that last scene! Never could Peter forget it while 
he lived — the vast, fretted hall with its painted arches 
and marble columns; the rays of the afternoon sun piercing 
the window-places, and streaming like blood on to the 
black robes of the monks as, with their prey, they vanished 
back into the arcade where they had lurked ; Margaret’s 
wild cry and ashen face as her father was tom away from 
her, and she sank fainting on to Betty’s bejewelled bosom ; 
the cmel sneer on Morelia’s lips; the king’s hard smile; 
the pity in the queen’s eye ; the excited murmurings of the 
crowd; the quick, brief comments of the lawyers; the 
scratching of the clerk’s quill as, careless of everything 
save his work, he recorded the various decrees. And 
above it all as it were, upright, defiant, unmoved, Castell, 
surrounded by the ministers of death, vanishing into the 
blackness of the arcade, vanishing into the jaws of the 
tomb. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

FATHER HENRIQUES AND THE BAKER’S OVEN 

A WEEK had gone by. Margaret was in the palace, 
where Peter had been to see her twice, and found her 
broken-hearted. Even the fact that they were to be wed 
upon the following Saturday, the day fixed also for the 
combat between Peter and Morelia, brought her no joy 
or consolation. For on the next day, the Sunday, there 
was to be an Act of Faith,” an anto da je in Seville, when 
wicked heretics, such as Jews, Moors, and persons who 
had spoken blasphemy, were to suffer for their crimes, 
some by fire on the Quemadero, or place of burning, out- 
side the city, some by making public confession of their 
grievous sin before they were carried off to perpetual and 
solitary imprisonment, some by being garroted before 
their bodies were given to the flames, and so forth. In 
this ceremony it was known that John Castell had been 
doomed to play a leading part. 

On her knees, with tears and beseechings, Margaret 
had prayed the queen for mercy. But in this matter those 
tears produced no more effect upon the heart of Isabella 
than does water dripping on a diamond. Gentle enough 
in other ways, where questions of the Faith were con- 
cerned she had the craft of a fox and the cruelty of a tiger. 

304 


HENRIQUES AND THE BAKER’S OVEN 305 

She was even indignant with Margaret. Had not enough 
been done for her, she asked ? Had she not even passed 
her royal word that no steps should be taken to deprive 
the accused of such property as he might own in Spain if 
he were found guilty, and that none of those penalties 
which, according to law and custom, fell upon the children 
of such infamous persons should attach to her, Margaret ? 
Was she not to be publicly married to her lover, and, 
should he survive the combat, allowed to depart with him 
in honor, without even being asked to see her father ex- 
piate his iniquity ? Surely, as a good Christian she should 
rejoice that he was given this opportunity of reconciling 
his soul with God and be made an example to others of 
his accursed faith. Was she then a heretic also ? 

So she stormed on, till Margaret crept from her presence 
wondering whether this creed could be right that would 
force the child to inform against and bring the parent to 
torment. Where were such things written in the sayings 
of the Saviour and His Apostles ? And if they were not 
written, who had invented them? 

“Save him! — save him!’^ Margaret had gasped to 
Peter in despair. “ Save him, or I swear to you, however 
much I may love you, however much we may seem to be 
married, never shall you be a husband to me.’^ 

“That seems hard,’^ replied Peter, shaking his head 
mournfully, “since it was not I who gave him over to 
these devils, and probably the end of it would be that I 
should share his fate. Still, I will do what a man can.” 

“No, no,” she cried in despair, “do nothing that will 
bring you into danger.” 

But Peter had gone without waiting for her answer. 

It was night, and he sat in a secret room in a certain 


20 


3o6 


MARGARET 


baker’s shop in Seville. There were present there beside 
himself the Fray Henriques, now a secretary to the Holy 
Inquisition, but disguised as a layman, the woman Inez, 
the agent Bemaldez, and the old Jew, Israel of Granada. 

“I have brought him here, never mind how,” Inez was 
saying, pointing to Henriques. “A risky business enough. 
And now what is the use of it?” 

“No use at all,” answered the Fray coolly, “except to 
me who pocket my ten gold pieces.” 

“A thousand doubloons if our friend escapes safe and 
sound,” put in the old Jew Israel. “God in Heaven! 
think of it, a thousand doubloons.” 

The secretary’s eyes gleamed hungrily. 

“I could do with them well enough,” he answered, 
“and hell could spare one filthy Jew for ten years or so, 
but I see no way. What I do see, is that probably all of 
you will join him. It is a great crime to try to tamper with 
a servant of the Holy Office.” 

Bemaldez turned white, and the old Jew bit his nails; 
but Inez tapped the priest upon the shoulder. 

“Are you thinking of betraying us?” she asked in her 
gentle voice. “ I.ook here, friend, I have some knowledge 
of poisons, and I swear to you that if you attempt it, you 
shall die within a week, tied in a double knot, and never 
know whence the dose came. Or I can bewitch you, I, 
who have not lived a dozen years among the Moors for 
nothing, so that your head swells and your body wastes, 
and you utter blasphemies, not knowing what you say, 
until for very shame’s sake they toast you among the 
faggots also.” 

“Bewitch me!” answered Henriques with a shiver. 
“You have done that already, or I should not be here.” 

“Then, if you do not wish to be in another place before 


HENRIQUES AND THE BAKER’S OVEN 307 


your time,” went on Inez, still tapping his shoulder gently, 
“ think, think, and find a way, worthy servant of the Holy 
Office.” 

“A thousand’ doubloons! — a thousand gold doub- 
loons!” croaked old Israel, “or if you fail, sooner or later, 
this month or next, this year of next, death — death as 
slow and cruel as we can make it. There are two In- 
quisitions in Spain, holy Father; but one of them does its 
business in the dark, and your name is on its ledger.” 

Now, Henriques was very frightened, as well he might 
be with all those eyes glaring at him. 

“You need fear nothing,” he said, “I know the devilish 
power of your league too well, and that if I kill you all, a 
hundred others I have never seen or heard of would dog 
me to my death, who have taken your accursed money.” 

“I am glad that you understand at last, dear friend,” 
said the soft, mocking voice of Inez, who stood behind the 
monk like an evil genius, and again tapped him affec- 
tionately on the shoulder, this time with the bare blade of a 
poniard. “Now, be quick with that plan of yours. It 
grows late, and all holy people should be abed.” 

“I have none. I defy you,” he answered furiously. 

“Very well, friend — very well; then I will say good 
night, or rather farewell, since I am not likely to meet you 
again in this world.” 

“Where are you going?” he asked anxiously. 

“Oh! to the palace to meet the Marquis of Morelia and 
a friend of his, a relation indeed. Look you here. I 
have had an offer of pardon for my part in that marriage 
if I can prove that a certain base priest knew that he was 
perpetrating a fraud. Well, I can prove it — you may 
remember that you wrote me a note — and, if I do, what 
happens to such a priest who chances to have incurred 


3o8 


MARGARET 


the hatred of a grandee of Spain and his noble re- 
lation?’^ 

‘‘I am an officer of the Holy Inquisition; no one dare 
touch me,” he gasped. 

“Oh! I think that there are some who would take the 
risk. For instance — the king.” 

Fray Henriques sank back in his chair. Now he under- 
stood whom Inez meant by the noble relative of Morelia, 
understood also that he had been trapped. 

“On Sunday morning,” he began in a hollow whisper, 
“the procession will be formed, and wind through the 
streets of the city to the theatre, where the sermon will be 
preached before those who are relaxed proceed to the 
Quemadero. About eight o’clock it turns on to the quay 
for a little way only, and here there are but few spectators, 
since the view of the pageant is bad, nor is the road guarded 
there. Now, if a dozen determined men were waiting 
disguised as peasants with a boat at hand, perhaps they 
might ” and he paused. 

Then Peter, who had been watching and listening to all 
this play, spoke for the first time, asking: 

“In such an event, reverend Sir, how would those de- 
termined men know which was the victim that they 
sought?” 

“The heretic John Castell,” he answered, “will be 
seated on an ass, clad in a zamarra of sheepskin painted 
with fiends and a likeness of his own head burning — 
very well done, for I, who can draw, had a hand in it. 
Also, he alone will have a rope round his neck, by which 
he may be known.” 

“Why will he be seated on an ass?” asked Peter sav- 
agely. “Because you have tortured him so that he cannot 
walk?” 


HENRIQUES AND THE BAKER’S OVEN 309 

‘‘Not so — not so/’ said the Dominican, shrinking 
from those fierce eyes. “He has never been questioned 
at all, not a single turn of the mancuerday I swear to you. 
Sir Knight. What was the use, since he openly avows 
himself an accursed Jew?” 

“Be more gentle in your talk, friend,” broke in Inez, 
with her famihar tap upon the shoulder. “There are 
those here who do not think so ill of Jews as you do in 
your Holy House, and who understand how to apply the 
mancuerday and can make a very serviceable rack out of a 
plank and a pulley or two such as lie in the next room. 
Cultivate courtesy, most learned priest, lest before you 
leave this place you should add a cubit to your stature.” 

“ Go on,” growled Peter. 

“Moreover,” added Fray Henriques shakily, “orders 
came that it was not to be done. The Inquisitors thought 
that it should be done, as they beheved — doubtless in 
error — that he might have accomplices whose names he 
would give up; but the orders said that as he had lived so 
long in England, and only recently travelled to Spain, he 
could have none. Therefore, he is sound — sound as a 
bell; never before, I am told, has an impenitent Jew gone 
to the stake in such good case, however worthy and wor- 
shipful he might be.” 

“So much the better for you, if you do not lie,” an- 
swered Peter. “Continue!” 

“There is nothing more to say, except that I shall be 
walking near to him with the two guards, and, of course, 
if he were snatched away from us, and there were no boats 
handy in which to pursue, we could not help it, could we ? 
Indeed, we priests, who are men of peace, might even fly 
at the sight of cruel violence.” 

“I should advise you to fly fast and far,” said Peter. 


310 


MARGARET 


“ But, Inez, what hold have you on this friend of yours ? 
He will trick everybody.” 

‘‘A thousand doubloons — a thousand doubloons!” 
muttered old Israel, like a sleepy parrot. 

“He may think to screw more than that out of the car- 
cases of some of us, old man. Come, Inez, you are quick 
at this game. How can we best hold him to his word?” 

“Dead, I think,” broke in Bemaldez, who knew his 
danger as the partner and agent of Castell, and the nominal 
owner of the ship Margaret^ in which it was purposed that 
he should escape. “We know all that he can tell, and if 
we let him go he will betray us soon or late. Kill him 
out of the way, I say, and bum his body in the oven.” 

Now Henriques fell upon his knees, and with groans 
and tears began to implore mercy. 

“Why do you complain so?” asked Inez, watching 
him with reflective eyes. “The end would be much 
gentler than that you righteous folk mete out to many 
more honest men, yes, and women too. For my part, I 
think that the Senor Bemaldez gives good counsel. Better 
that you should die, who are but one, than all of us and 
others, for you will understand that we cannot trust you. 
Has any one got a rope?” 

Now Henriques grovelled on the ground before her, 
kissing the hem of her robe, and praying her in the name 
of all the saints to show pity on one who had been betrayed 
into this danger by love of her. 

“Of money you mean. Toad,” she answered, kicking 
him with her slippered foot. “I had to listen to your 
talk of love while we journeyed together, and before, but 
here I need not, and if you speak of it again you shall go 
living into that bakeFs oven. Oh! you have forgotten it, 
but I have a long score to settle with you. You were a 


HENRIQUES AND THE BAKER’S OVEN 31 1 

familiar of the Holy Office here at Seville — were you 
not ? — before Morelia promoted you to Motril for your 
zeal, and made you one of his chaplains ? Well, I had a 
sister.” And she knelt down and whispered a name into 
his ear. 

He uttered a sound, it was more of a scream than a 
gasp. 

“I had nothing to do with her death,” he protested. 
“She was brought within the walls of the Holy House by 
some one who had a grudge against her and bore false 
witness.” 

“Yes, I know. It was you who had the grudge, you 
snake- souled priest, and it was you who gave the false- 
witness. It was you, also, who but the other day volun- 
teered the corroborative evidence that was necessary 
against Castell, saying that he had passed the Rood at 
your house in Motril without doing it reverence, and 
other things. It was you, too, who urged your superiors 
to put him to the question, because you said he w’as rich 
and had rich friends, and much money could be wrung out 
of him and them, whereof you were to get your share. 
Oh! yes, my information is good, is it not? Even what 
passes in the dungeons of the Holy House comes to the 
ears of the woman Inez. Well, do you still think that 
baker’s oven too hot for you?” 

By now Henriques was speechless with terror. There 
he ^elt upon the floor, glaring at this soft- voiced, re- 
morseless woman who had made a tool and a fool of him, 
who had beguiled him there that night, and who hated 
him so bitterly and with so just a cause. Peter was 
speaking now. 

“It would be better not to stain our hands with this 
creature’s blood,” he said. “ Caged rats give little sport, 


312 


MARGARET ' 


and he might be tracked. For my part, I would leave 
his judgment to God. Have you no other way, Inez?^^ 

She thought a while, then prodded the Fray Henriques 
with her foot, saying: 

“ Get up, sainted secretary to the Holy Office, and do a 
little writing, which will be easy to you. See, here are 
pens and paper. Now I’ll dictate : 

“‘Most Adorable Inez, 

“‘Your dear message has reached me safely here in this 
accursed Holy House, where we lighten heretics of their 
sins to the benefit of their souls, and of their goods to the 
benefit of our own bodies 

“I cannot write it,” groaned Henriques; “it is rank 
heresy.” 

“No, only the truth,” answered Inez. 

“ Heresy and the truth — well, they are often the same 
thing. They would bum me for it.” 

“That is just what many heretics have urged. They 
have died gloriously for what they hold to be the truth, 
why should not you ? Listen,” she went on more sternly. 
“Will you take your chance of burning on the Quemadero, 
which you will not do unless you betray us, or will you 
certainly bum more privately, but better, in a baker’s 
oven, and within half an hour? Ah! I thought you 
would not hesitate. Continue your letter, most learned 
scribe. Are those words down? Yes. Now, add these: 

“‘I note all you tell me about the trial at the Alcazar 
before their Majesties. I believe that the Englishwoman 
will win her case. That was a very pretty trick that I 
played on the most noble marquis at Granada. Nothing 
neater was ever done, even in this place. Well, I owed 
him a long score, and I have paid him off in full. I should 


HENRIQUES AND THE BAKER’S OVEN 313 


like to have seen his exalted countenance when he sur- 
veyed the features of his bride, the waiting-woman, and 
knew that the mistress was safe away with another man. 
The nephew of the king, who would like himself to be 
king some day, married to an English waiting- woman ! 
Good, very good, dear Inez. 

‘“Now, as regards the Jew, John Castell. I think 
that the matter may possibly be managed, provided that 
the money is all right, for, as you know, I do not work for 
nothing. Thus — ’ And Inez dictated with admirable 
lucidity those suggestions as to the rescue of Castell, with 
which the reader is already acquainted, ending the letter 
as follows: 

‘“These Inquisitors here are cruel beasts, though 
fonder of money than of blood ; for all their talk about zeal 
for the Faith is so much wind behind the mountains. 
They care as much for the Faith as the mountain cares 
for the wind, or, let us say, as I do. They wanted to 
torture the poor devil, thinking that he would rain mara- 
vedis; but I gave a hint in the right quarter, and their fun 
was stopped. Carissima, I must stop also; it is my hour 
for duty, but I hope to meet you as arranged, and we will 
have a merry evening. Love to the newly married mar- 
quis, if you meet him, and to yourself you know how much. 

“‘Your 

“ ‘ Henriques. 

“ ‘ PosTSCRiPTUM. — This position will scarcely be as 
remunerative as I hoped, so I am glad to be able to earn 
a little outside, enough to buy you a present that will 
make your pretty eyes shine.’” 

“There!” said Inez mildly, “I think that covers every- 
thing, and would bum you three or four times over. Let 


314 


MARGARET 


me read it to see that it is plainly written and properly 
signed, for in such matters a good deal turns on hand- 
writing. Yes, that will do. Now, you understand, donT 
you, if anything goes wrong about the matter we have 
been talking of — that is, if the worthy John Castell is 
not rescued, or a smell of our little plot should get into the 
wind — this letter goes at once to the right quarter, and a 
certain secretary will wish that he had never been bom. 
ManP’ she added in a hissing whisper, “you shall die by 
inches as my sister did.” 

“A thousand doubloons if the thing succeeds, and you 
live to claim them,” croaked old Israel. “I do not go 
back upon my word. Death and shame and torture or a 
thousand doubloons. Now he knows our terms, bhnd- 
fold him again, Sehor Bemaldez, and away with him, for 
he poisons the air. But first you, Inez, be gone and 
lodge that letter where you know.” 

That same night two cloaked figures, Peter and Ber- 
naldez, were rowed in a httle boat out to where the Mar- 
garet lay in the river, and, making her fast, slipped up the 
ship’s side into the cabin. Here the stout English captain. 
Smith, was waiting for them, and so glad was the honest 
fellow to see Peter that he cast his arms about him and 
hugged him, for they had not met since that desperate 
adventure of the boarding of the San Antonio. 

“Is your ship fit for sea. Captain?” asked Peter. 

“She will never be fitter,” he answered. “When shall 
I get saihng orders?” 

“When the owner comes aboard,” answered Peter. 

“Then we shall stop here until we rot; they have trapped 
him in their Inquisition. What is in your mind, Peter 
Brome? — what is in your mind? Is there a chance?” 


HENRIQUES AND THE BAKER’S OVEN 315 

“Aye, Captain, I think so, if you have a dozen fellows 
of the right English stuff between decks.” 

“We have got that number, and one or two more. 
But what’s the plan?” 

Peter told him. 

“Not so bad,” said Smith, slapping his heavy hand 
upon his knee; “but risky — very risky. That Inez must 
be a good girl. I should like to marry her, notwithstand- 
ing her bygones.” 

Peter laughed, thinking what an odd couple they would 
make. 

“Hear the rest, then talk,” he said. “See now! On 
^he Saturday the Mistress Margaret and I are to be 
married in the cathedral; then, towards sunset, the Mar- 
quis of Morelia and I run our course in the great bull- 
ring yonder, and you and half a dozen of your men will 
be present. Now, I may conquer or I may fail ” 

“Never! — never!” said the captain. “I wouldn’t 
give a pair of old boots for that fine Spaniard’s chance 
when you get at him. Why, you will crimp him like a 
codfish!” 

“God knows!” answered Peter. “If I win, my wife 
and I make our adieux to their Majesties, and ride away 
to the quay, where the boat will be waiting, and you will 
row us on board the Margaret, If I fail, you will take up 
my body, and, accompanied by my widow, bring it in the 
same fashion on board the Margaret, for I shall give it 
out that in this case I wish to be embalmed in wine and 
taken back to England for burial. In either event, you 
will drop your ship a little way down the river round the 
bend, so that folk may think that you have sailed. In 
the darkness you will work her back with the tide and 
lay her behind those old hulks, and if any ask you why, 


3i6 


MARGARET 


say that three of your men have not yet come aboard, and 
that you have dropped back for them, and whatever else 
you like. Then, in case I should not be alive to guide 
you, you and ten or twelve of the best sailors will land at 
the spot that this gentleman will show you to-morrow, 
wearing Spanish cloaks so as not to attract attention, and 
being well armed underneath them, like idlers from some 
ship who had come ashore to see the show. I have told 
you how you may know Master Castell. When you see 
him make a rush for him, cut down any that try to stop 
you, tumble him into the boat, and row for your lives to 
the ship, which will slip her moorings and get up her 
canvas as soon as she sees you coming, and begin to drop 
down the river with the tide and wind, if there is one. 
That is the plot, but God alone knows the end of it! 
which depends upon Him and the sailors. Will you 
play this game for the love of a good man and the rest 
of us? If you succeed, you shall be rich for hfe, all of 
you.” 

“Aye,” answered the captain, “and there^s my hand 
on it. So sure as my name is Smith, we will hook him 
out of that hell if men can do it, and not for the money 
either. Why, Peter, we have sat here idle so long, waiting 
for you and our lady, that we shall be glad of the fun. 
At any rate, there will be some dead Spaniards before 
they have done with us, and, if we are worsted. I’ll leave 
the mate and enough hands upon the ship to bring her 
safe to Tilbury. But we won’t be — we won’t be. By 
this day week we will all be rolling homewards across the 
Bay with never a Spaniard within three hundred miles, 
you and your lady and Master Castell, too. I know it! 
I tell you, lad, I know it!” 

“How do you know it?” asked Peter curiously. 


HENRIQUES AND THE BAKER’S OVEN 317 

“Because I dreamed it last night. I saw you and 
Mistress Margaret sitting sweet as sugar, with your arms 
around each other’s middles, while I talked to the master, 
and the sun went down with the wind blowing stiff from 
sou-sou-west, and a gale threatening. I tell you that I 
dreamed it — I who am not given to dreams.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE FALCON STOOPS 

It was the marriage day of Margaret and Peter. Clad 
in white armor that had been sent to him as a present 
from the queen, a sign and a token of her good wishes for 
his success in his combat with Morelia, wearing the in- 
signia of a Knight of St. James hanging by a ribbon from | 
his neck, his shield emblazoned with his coat of the stoop- 
ing falcon, which appeared also upon the white cloak that 
hung from his shoulders, a squire behind him of high 
degree, who carried his plumed casque and lance, and 
accompanied by an escort of the royal guards, Peter rode 
from his quarters in the prison to the palace gates, and 
waited there as he had been bidden. Presently they 
opened, and through them, seated on a palfrey, wonder- 
fully attired in white and silver, but with her veil lifted so 
that her face could be seen, appeared Margaret. She 
was companioned by a troop of maidens mounted, all of 
them, on white horses, and at her side, almost outshining 
her in glory of apparel, and attended by all her house- 
hold, rode Betty, Marchioness of Morelia — at any rate 
for that present time. 

Although she could never be less than beautiful, it was a 
worn and pale Margaret who bowed her greetings to the 
318 


THE FALCON STOOPS 


319 


bridegroom without those palace gates. What wonder, 
since she knew that within a few hours his life must be 
set upon the hazard of a desperate fray ? What wonder, 
since she knew that to-morrow her father was doomed to 
be burnt living upon the Quemadero ? 

They met, they greeted, then, with silver trumpets blow- 
ing before them, the glittering procession wound its way 
through the narrow streets of Seville. But few words 
passed between them, whose hearts were too full for words, 
who had said all they had to say, and now abided the issue 
of events. Betty, however, whom many of the populace 
took for the bride, because her air was so much the happier 
of the two, would not be silent. Indeed she chid Margaret 
for her lack of gayety upon such an occasion. 

“Oh, Betty! — Betty!” answered Margaret, “how can 
I be gay, upon whose heart lies the burden of to- 
morrow?” 

“A pest upon the burden of to-morrow!” exclaimed 
Betty. “The burden of to-day is enough for me, and that 
is not so bad to bear. Never shall we have another such 
ride as this, with all the world staring at us, and every 
woman in Seville envying us and our good looks and the 
favor of the queen.” 

“I think it is you they stare at and envy,” said Mar- 
garet, glancing at the splendid woman at her side, whose 
beauty she knew well overshadowed her own rarer loveli- 
ness, at any rate in a street pageant, as in the sunshine 
the rose overshadows the lily. 

“Well,” answered Betty, “if so, it is because I put the 
better face on things, and smile even if my heart bleeds. 
At least, your lot is more hopeful than mine. If your 
husband has to fight to the death presently, so has mine, 
and between ourselves I favor Peter’s chances. He is a 


320 


MARGARET 


very stubborn fighter, Peter, and wonderfully strong — 
too stubborn and strong for any Spaniard.” 

“Well, that is as it should be,” said Margaret, smiling 
faintly, “seeing that Peter is your champion, and if he 
loses, you are stamped as a serving-girl, and a woman of 
no character.” 

“A serving-girl I was, or something not far different,” 
replied Betty in a reflective voice, “and my character is a 
matter between me and Heaven, though, after all, it 
might scrape through where others fail to pass. So these 
things do not trouble me over much. What troubles me 
is that if my champion wins he kills my husband.” 

“You don’t want him to be killed then?” asked Mar- 
garet, glancing at her. 

“No, I think not,” answered Betty with a little shake 
in her voice, and turning her head aside for a moment. 
“I know he is a scoundrel, but, you see, I always liked 
this scoundrel, just as you always hated him, so I cannot 
help wishing that he was going to meet some one who hits 
a little less hard than Peter. Also, if he dies, without 
doubt his heirs will raise suits against me. 

“At any rate your father is not going to be burnt to- 
morrow,” said Margaret to change the subject, which, to 
tell the truth, was an awkward one. 

“No, Cousin, if my father had his deserts, according to 
all accounts, although the lineage that I gave of him is 
true enough, doubtless he was burnt long ago, and still 
goes on burning — in Purgatory, I mean — though God 
knows I would never bring a fagot to his fire. But Master 
Castell will not be burnt, so why fret about it?” 

“What makes you say that?” asked Margaret, who had 
not confided the details of a certain plot to Betty. 

“I don’t know, but I am sure that Peter will get him out 


THE FALCON STOOPS 


321 


somehow. He is a very good stick to lean on, Peter, 
although he seems so stupid and silent, which, after all, 
is in the nature of sticks. But look, there is the cathedral 
— is it not a fine place ? — and a great crowd of people 
waiting round the gate. Now smile. Cousin. Bow and 
smile as I do.” 

They rode up to the great doors, where Peter, springing 
to the ground, assisted his bride from the palfrey. Then 
the procession formed, and they entered the wonderful 
place, preceded by vergers with staves, and by acolytes. 
Margaret had never visited it before, and never saw it 
again, but all her life the memory of it remained clear and 
vivid in her mind. The cold chill of the air within, the 
semi- darkness after the glare of the sunshine, the seven 
great naves, or aisles, stretching endlessly to right and left, 
the dim and towering roof, the pillars that sprang to it 
everywhere like huge trees of the forest aspiring to the 
skies, the solemn shadows pierced by lines of light from 
the high-cut windows, the golden glory of the altars, the 
sounds of chanting, the sepulchres of the dead — a sense 
of all these things rushed in upon her, overpowering her 
and stamping the picture of them forever on her soul. 

Slowly they passed onward to the choir, and round it to 
the steps of the great altar of the chief chapel. Here, 
between the choir and the chapel, was gathered the con- 
gregation — no small one — and here, side by side to the 
right and without the rails, in chairs of state, sat their 
Majesties of Spain, who had chosen to grace this cere- 
mony with their presence. More, as the bride came, the 
queen Isabella, as a special act of grace, rose from her 
seat and, bending forward, kissed her on the cheek, while 
the choir sang and the noble music rolled. It was a 
splendid spectacle, this marriage of hers, celebrated in 


21 


322 


MARGARET 


perhaps the most glorious fane in Europe. But even as 
Margaret noted it and watched the bishops and priests 
decked with glittering embroideries, summoned there to do 
her honor, as they moved to and fro in the mysterious 
ceremonial of the Mass, she bethought her of other rites 
equally glorious that would take place on the morrow in 
the greatest square of Seville, where these same dignitaries 
would condemn fellow human beings — perhaps among 
them her own father — to be married to the cruel flame. 

Side by side they knelt before the wondrous altar, while 
the incense-clouds from the censers floated up one by one 
till they were lost in the gloom above, as the smoke of to- 
morrow’s sacrifice would lose itself in the heavens, she 
and her husband, won at last, won after so many perils, 
perhaps to be lost again for ever before night fell upon the 
world. The priests chanted, the gorgeous bishop bowed 
over them and muttered the marriage service of their 
faith, the ring was set upon her hand, the troths were 
plighted, the benediction spoken, and they were man and 
wife till death should them part, that death which stood 
so near to them in this hour of life fulfilled. Then they 
two, who already that morning had made confession of 
their sins, kneeling alone before the altar, ate of the holy 
Bread, sealing a mystery with a mystery. 

All was done and over, and rising, they turned and 
stayed a moment hand in hand while the sweet-voiced 
choir sang some wondrous chant. Margaret’s eyes 
wandered over the congregation till presently they lighted 
upon the dark face of Morelia, who stood apart a little 
way, surrounded by his squires and gentlemen, and 
watched her. More, he came to her, and bowing low, 
whispered to her: 

“We are players in a strange game, my lady Margaret, 



■ 


“WE ARE PLAYERS 


IN A 


STRANGE GAME, MY LADY MARGARET” 







THE FALCON STOOPS 


323 


and what will be its end, I wonder? Shall I be dead to- 
night, or you a widow ? Aye, and where was its beginning ? 
Not here, I think. And where, oh where shall this seed 
we sow bear fruit? Well, think as kindly of me as you 
can, since I loved you who love me not.” 

And again bowing, first to her, then to Peter, he passed 
on, taking no note of Betty, who stood near, considering 
him with her large eyes, as though she also wondered 
what would be the end of all this play. 

Surrounded by their courtiers, the king and queen left 
the cathedral, and after them came the bridegroom and 
the bride. They mounted their horses and in the glory 
of the southern sunhght rode through the cheering crowd 
back to the palace and to the marriage feast, where their 
table was set but just below that of their Majesties. It 
Was long and magnificent; but little could they eat, and, 
save to pledge each other in the ceremonial cup, no wine 
passed their lips. At length some trumpets blew, and 
their Majesties rose, the king saying in his thin, clear 
voice that he would not bid his guests farewell, since very 
shortly they would all meet again in another place, where 
the gallant bridegroom, a gentleman of England, would 
champion the cause of his relative and countrywoman 
against one of the first grandees of Spain whom she 
alleged had done her wrong. That fray, alas ! would be no 
pleasure joust, but to the death, for the feud between these 
knights was deep and bitter, and such were the conditions 
of their combat. He could not wish success to the one 
or to the other; but of this he was sure, that in all Seville 
there was no heart that would not give equal honor to the 
conqueror and the conquered, sure also that both would 
bear themselves as became brave knights of Spain and 
England. 


324 


MARGARET 


Then the trumpets blew again, and the squires and 
gentlemen who were chosen to attend him came bowing 
to Peter, and saying that it was time for him to arm. Bride 
and bridegroom rose and, while all the spectators fell back 
out of hearing, but watching them with curious eyes, spoke 
some few words together. 

“We part,” said Peter, “and I know not what to say.” 
“ Say nothing, husband,” she answered him, “lest your 
words should weaken me. Go now, and bear you bravely, 
as you will for your own honor and that of England, and 
for mine. Dead or living you are my darhng, and dead or 
living we shall meet once more and be at rest for aye. My 
prayers be with you. Sir Peter, my prayers and my eternal 
love, and may they bring strength to your arm and com- 
fort to your heart.” 

Then she, who would not embrace him before all those 
folk, curtseyed till her knee almost touched the ground, 
while low he bent before her, a strange and stately cere- 
monial, or so thought that company; and taking the hand 
of Betty, Margaret left him. 

Two hours had gone by. The Plaza de Toros, for the 
great square where tournaments were wont to be held was 
in the hands of those who prepared it for the auto da }i of 
the morrow, was crowded as it had seldom been before. 
This place was a huge amphitheatre — perchance the 
Romans built it — where all sorts of games were cele- 
brated, among them the baiting of bulls as it was prac- 
tised in those days, and other semi-savage sports. Twelve 
thousand people could sit upon the benches that rose tier 
upon tier around the vast theatre, and scarce a seat was 
empty. The arena itself, that was long enough for horses 
starting at either end of it to come to their full speed, was 


THE FALCON STOOPS 


325 


strewn with white sand, as it may have been in the days 
when gladiators fought there. Over the main entrance 
and opposite to the centre of the ring were placed the king 
and queen with their lords and ladies, and between them, 
but a little behind, her face hid by her bridal veil, sat 
Margaret, upright and silent as a statue. Exactly in front 
of them, on the further side of the. ring in a pavilion, and 
attended by her household, appeared Betty, glittering with 
gold and jewels, since she was the lady in whose cause, at 
least in name, this combat was to be fought a Voutrance. 
Quite unmoved she sat, and her presence seemed to draw 
every eye in that vast assembly, that talked of her while 
they waited, with a sound like the sound of the sea as it 
murmurs on a beach at night. 

Now trumpets blew, and silence fell, and then, preceded 
by heralds in golden tabards, Carlos, Marquis of Morelia, 
followed by his squires, rode into the ring through the 
great entrance. He bestrode a splendid black horse, and 
was arrayed in coal-black armor, while from his casque 
rose black ostrich plumes. On his shield, however, 
painted in scarlet, appeared the eagle crowned with the 
coronet of his rank, and beneath, the proud motto — 
‘‘What I seize I tear.’’ A splendid figure, he pressed his 
horse into the centre of the arena, then causing it to wheel 
round, pawing the air with its fore-legs, saluted their 
Majesties by raising his long, steel-tipped lance, while the 
multitude greeted him with a shout. This done, he and 
his company rode away to their station at the north end 
of the ring. 

Again the trumpets sounded, and a herald appeared, 
while after him, mounted on a white horse, and clad in his 
white armor, that glistened in the sun, with white plumes 
rising from his casque, and on his shield the stooping 


326 


MARGARET 


falcon blazoned in gold with the motto of “For love and 
honor beneath it, appeared the tall, grim shape of Sir 
Peter Brome. He, too, rode out into the centre of the 
arena, and, turning his horse quite soberly, as though it 
were on a road, lifted his lance in salute. Now there was 
no cheering, for this knight was a foreigner, yet soldiers 
who were there said to each other that he looked like one 
who would not easily be overthrown. 

A third time the trumpets sounded, and the two cham- 
pions, advancing from their respective stations, drew rein 
side by side in front of their Majesties, where the con- 
ditions of the combat were read aloud to them by the chief 
herald. They were short. That the fray should be to the 
death unless the king and queen willed otherwise and the 
victor consented ; that it should be on horse or on foot, with 
lance or sword or dagger, but that no broken weapon might 
be replaced and no horse or armor changed; that the 
victor should be escorted from the place of combat with all 
honor, and allowed to depart whither he would, in the 
kingdom or out of it, and no suit or blood-feud raised 
against him, and that the body of the fallen be handed 
over to his friends for burial, also with all honor. That 
the issue of this fray should in no way affect any cause 
pleaded in Courts ecclesiastical or civil by the lady who 
asserted herself to be the Marchioness of Morelia, or by 
the most noble Marquis of Morelia, whom she claimed 
as her husband. 

These conditions having been read, the champions were 
asked if they assented to them, whereon each of them an- 
swered, “Aye!” in a clear voice. Then the herald, speak- 
ing on behalf of Sir Peter Brome, by creation a knight of 
St. lago and a Don of Spain, solemnly challenged the 
noble Marquis of Morelia to single combat to the death. 


THE FALCON STOOPS 


327 


in that he, the said marquis, had aspersed the name of 
his relative, the English lady, Elizabeth Dene, who 
claimed to be his wife, duly united to him in holy wed- 
lock, and for sundry other causes and injuries worked 
towards him, the said Sir Peter Brome, and his wife. 
Dame Margaret Brome, and in token thereof threw 
down a gauntlet, which gauntlet the Marquis of Morelia 
lifted upon the point of his lance and cast over his shoulder, 
thus accepting the challenge. 

Now the combatants dropped their visors, which here- 
tofore had been raised, and their squires, coming forward, 
examined the fastenings of their armor, their weapons, 
and the girths and bridles of their horses. These being 
pronounced sound and good, pursuivants took the steeds 
by the bridles and led them to the far end of the lists. At 
a signal from the king a single clarion blew, whereon the 
pursuivants loosed their hold of the bridles and sprang 
back. Another clarion blew, and the knights gathered 
up their reins, settled their shields, and set their lances in 
rest, bending forward over their horses’ necks. 

An intense silence fell upon all the watching multitude 
as that of night upon the sea, and in the midst of it the 
third clarion blew — to Margaret it sounded like the trump 
of doom. From twelve thousand throats one great sigh 
went up, like the sigh of wind upon the sea, and ere it died 
away, from either end of the arena, like arrows from the 
bow, like levens from the cloud, the champions started 
forth, their stallions gathering speed at every stride. 
Look, they met! Fair on each shield struck a lance, 
and backward reeled their holders. The keen points 
glanced aside or up, and the knights, recovering them- 
selves, rushed past each other, shaken but unhurt. At 
the ends of the lists the squires caught the horses 


328 


MARGARET 


by the bridles and turned them, for the first course was 
run. 

Again the clarions blew, and again they started for- 
ward, and presently again they met in mid career. As 
before, the lances struck upon the shields; but so fearful 
was the impact, that Peter’s shivered, while that of Mo- 
relia, sliding from the topmost rim of his foe’s buckler, got 
hold in his visor bars. Back bent Peter beneath the blow, 
back and still back, till almost he lay upon his horse’s 
crupper. Then, when it seemed that he must fall, the 
lacings of his helm burst. It was tom from his head, and 
Morelia passed on, bearing it transfixed upon his spear 
point. 

^‘The Falcon falls,” ' screamed the spectators; “he is 
unhorsed.” 

But Peter was not unhorsed. Freed from that awful 
pressure, he let drop the shattered shaft, and, grasping at 
his saddle strap, dragged himself back into the selle. 
Morelia tried to stay his charger, that he might come about 
and fall upon the Englishman before he could recover 
himself; but the bmte was heady, and would not be 
turned till he saw the wall of faces in front of him. Now 
they were round, both of them, but Peter had no spear and 
no helm, while the lance of Morelia was cumbered with 
his adversary’s casque that he strove to shake free from 
it, but in vain. 

“Draw your sword,” shouted voices to Peter — the 
English voices of Smith and his sailors — and he put his 
hand down to do so, then bethought him of some other 
counsel, for he let it lie within its scabbard, and, spurring 
the white horse, came at Morelia like a storm. 

“The Falcon will be spiked,” they screamed. “The 
Eagle wins! — the Eagle wins!” And indeed it seemed 


THE FALCON STOOPS 


329 


that it must be so. Straight at Peter’s undefended face 
drove Morelia’s lance, but lo! as it came he let fall his 
reins and with his shield he struck at the white plumes 
about its point, the plumes tom from his own head. He 
had judged well, for up flew those plumes, a little, a very 
httle, yet far enough to give him space, crouching on his 
saddle-bow, to pass beneath the deadly spear. Then, as 
they swept past each other, out shot that long, right arm of 
his and, gripping Morelia like a hook of steel, tore him 
from his saddle, so that the black horse rushed forward 
riderless, and the white sped on bearing a double burden. 

Grasping desperately, Morelia threw his arms about 
his neck, and intertwined, black armor mixed with white, 
they swayed to and fro, while the frightened horse beneath 
rushed this way and that till, swerving suddenly, together 
they fell upon the sand, and for a moment lay there stunned. 

“Who conquers?” gasped the crowd; while others an- 
swered, “Both are sped!” And, leaning forward in her 
chair, Margaret tore off her veil and watched with a face 
like the face of death. 

See! As they had fallen together, so together they 
stirred and rose — rose unharmed. Now they sprang 
back, out flashed the long swords, and, while the squires 
caught the horses and, running in, seized the broken 
spears, they faced each other. Having no helm, Peter 
held his buckler above his head to shelter it, and, ever 
calm, awaited the onslaught. 

At him came Morelia, and with a light, grating sound 
his sword fell upon the steel. Before he could recover 
himself Peter struck back; but Morelia bent his knees, and 
the stroke only shore the black plumes from his casque. 
Quick as light he drove at Peter’s face with his point; but 
the Englishman leapt to one side, and the thrust went past 


330 


MARGARET 


him. Again Morelia came at him, and struck so mighty 
a blow that, although Peter caught it on his buckler, it 
sliced through the edge of it and fell upon his unpro- 
tected neck and shoulder, wounding him, for now red 
blood showed on the white armor, and Peter reeled back 
beneath the stroke. 

‘‘The Eagle wins! — the Eagle wins! Spain and the 
Eagle,” shouted ten thousand throats. 

In the momentary silence that followed, a single voice, I 
a clear woman’s voice, which even here Margaret knew 
for that of Inez, cried from among the crowd : | 

“Nay, the Falcon stoops!” 

Before the sound of her words died away, maddened, ' 
it would seem, by the pain of his wound, or the fear of ; 
defeat, Peter shouted out his war-cry of Bromel A 
BromeV'^ and, gathering himself together, sprang straight 
at Morelia as springs a starving wolf. The blue steel 
flickered in the sunlight, then down it fell, and lo! half the 
Spaniard’s helm lay on the sand, while it was Morelia’s 
turn to reel backward — and more, as he did so, he let fall | 
his shield. 

“ A stroke ! — a good stroke ! ” roared the crowd. “ The 
Falcon! — the Falcon!” 

Peter saw that fallen shield, and whether for chivalry’s 
sake, as thought the cheering multitude, or to free his 
left arm, he cast away his own, and grasping the sword 
with both hands rushed on the Spaniard. From that 
moment, helmless though he was, the issue lay in doubt 
no longer. Betty had spoken of Peter as a stubborn - 
swordsman and a hard hitter, and both of these he now ^ 
showed himself to be. As fresh to all appearance as when j 
he ran the first course, he rained blow after blow upon the ^ 
hapless Spaniard, till the sound of his sword smiting on ■ 


THE FALCON STOOPS 


331 


the good Toledo steel was like the sound of a hammer fall- 
ing continually on the smith’s red iron. They were fear- 
ful blows, yet still the tough steel held, and still Morelia, 
doing what he might, staggered back beneath them, till at 
^ length he came in front of the tribune in which sat their 
Majesties and Margaret. 

Out of the comer of his eye Peter saw the place, and 
^ determined in his stout heart that then and there he would 
^‘"'end the thing. Parrying a cut which the desperate Span- 
iard made at his head, he thrust at him so heavily that his 
Iblade bent hke a bow, and, although he could not pierce 
the black mail, almost lifted Morelia from his feet. Then, 
as he reeled backwards, Peter whirled his sword on high, 
and, shouting Margaret struck downwards with all his 
strength. It fell as lightning falls, swift, keen, dazzling the 
eyes of all who watched. Morelia raised his arm to break 
the blow. In vain ! The weapon that he held was shattered, 
the casque beneath was cloven, and, throwing his arms 
wide, he fell heavily to the ground and lay there moving 
feebly. 

For an instant there was silence, and in it a shrill 
woman’s voice that cried : ' 

“The Falcon has stooped. The English hawk has 
stooped /” 

Then there arose a tumult of shouting. “He is dead!” 
“Nay, he stirs.” “Kill him!” “Spare him; he fought 
well!” 

Peter leaned upon his sword, looking at the fallen foe 
Then he glanced upwards at their Majesties, but these sat 
i silent, making no sign, only he saw Margaret try to rise 
i from her seat and speak, to be pulled back to it again by 
I the hands of women. A deep hush fell upon the watch- 
I ing thousands who waited for the end. Peter looked at 


332 


MARGARET 


Morelia. Alas! he still lived, his sword and the stout 
helmet had broken the weight of that stroke, mighty 
though it had been. The man was but wounded in three 
places and stunned. 

“What must I do?” asked Peter in a hollow voice to the 
royal pair above him. 

Now the king, who seemed moved, was about to speak; 
but the queen bent forward and whispered something to 
him, and he remained silent. They both were silent. All 
the intent multitude was silent. Knowing what this dread- 
ful silence meant, Peter cast down his sword and drew 
his dagger, wherewith to cut the lashings of Morelia’s 
gorget and give the coup de grace. 

Just then it was that for the first time he heard a sound, 
far away upon the other side of the arena, and, looking 
thither, saw the strangest sight that ever his eyes beheld. 
Over the railing of the pavilion opposite to him a woman 
climbed nimbly as a cat, and from it, like a cat, dropped 
to the ground full ten feet below, then, gathering up her j 
dress about her knees, ran swiftly towards him. It was 
Betty! Betty without a doubt! Betty in her gorgeous 
garb, with pearls and braided hair flying loose behind her. 
He stared amazed. All stared amazed, and in half a 
minute she was on them, and, standing over the fallen 
Morelia, gasped out: 

“Let him be! I bid you let him be.” 

Peter knew not what to do or say, so advanced to speak 
with her, whereon with a swoop like that of a swallow she 
pounced upon his sword that lay in the sand, and, leaping 
back to Morelia, shook it on high, shouting: 

“You will have to fight me first, Peter.” 

Indeed, she did more, striking at him so shrewdly with 
his own sword that he was forced to spring sideways to 



“YOU WILL HAVE TO FIGHT ME FIRST, PETER” 










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♦ 




_L a: 


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jXi ;v/ 9 ' Vuy^ 





i 


I 


THE FALCON STOOPS 


333 


avoid the stroke. Now a great roar of laughter went up 
to heaven. Yes, even Peter laughed, for no such thing 
as this had ever before been seen in Spain. It died away, 
and again Betty, who had no low voice, shouted in her 
villainous Spanish: 

“ He shall kill me before he kills my husband. Give me 
my husband!” 

“Take him, for my part,” answered Peter, whereon, 
letting fall the sword, Betty, filled with the strength of 
despair, lifted the senseless Spaniard in her strong white 
arms as though he were a child, and, his bleeding head 
lying on her shoulder, strove to carry him away, but 
could not. 

Then, while all that audience cheered frantically, Peter 
with a gesture of despair threw down his dagger and once 
more appealed to their Majesties. The king rose and 
held up his hand, at the same time motioning to Morelia’s 
.squires to take him from the woman, which, seeing their 
cognizance, Betty allowed them to do. 

“Marchioness of Morelia,” said the king, for the first 
time giving her that title, “your honor is cleared, your 
champion has conquered, and this fierce fray was to the 
death. What have you to say?” 

“Nothing,” answered Betty, “except that I love the 
man, though he has treated me and others ill, and, as I 
knew he would if he crossed swords with Peter, has got 
his deserts for his deeds. I say I love him, and if Peter 
wishes to kill him, he must kill me first.” 

“Sir Peter Brome,” said the king, “the judgment lies 
in your hand. We give you the man’s life, to grant or to 
take.” 

Peter thought a while, then answered : 

^ “I grant him his fife if he will acknowledge this lady 


334 


MARGARET 


to be his true and lawful wife, and live with her as such, 
now and for ever, staying all suits against her/^ 

‘‘How can he do that, you fool,” asked Betty, “when 
you have knocked all his senses out of him with that great 
sword of yours?” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Peter humbly, “some one will do 
it for him.” 

“Yes,” said Isabella, speaking for the first time, “I 
will. On behalf of the Marquis of Morelia I promise 
these things, Don Peter Brome, before all these people 
here gathered. I add this: that if he should live, and it 
pleases him to break his promise made on his behalf to 
save him from death, then let his name be shamed, yes, 
let it become a byword and a scorn. Proclaim it, heralds.” 

So the heralds blew their trumpets and called the queen’s 
decree, whereat the spectators cheered again, shouting 
that it was good, and they bore witness to that promise. 

Then Morelia, still senseless, was borne away by his 
squires, Betty in her blood-stained robe marching at his 
side, and his horse having been brought to him again, 
Peter, wounded though he was, mounted and gallopped 
round the arena amidst plaudits such as that place had 
never heard, till, lifting his sword in salutation, sudden]^ 
he and his gentlemen vanished by the gate through which 
he had appeared. 

Thus strangely enough ended that combat, which there- 
after was always known as the Fray of the Eagle and the 
Hawk. 


CHAPTER XXV 

HOW THE MARGARET WON OUT TO SEA 

It was night. Peter, faint with loss of blood and stiff 
with bruises, had bade his farewell to their Majesties of 
Spain, who spoke many soft words to him, calling him the 
Flower of Knighthood, and offering him high place and 
rank if he would abide in their service. But he thanked 
them and said No, for in Spain he had suffered too much 
to dwell there. So they kissed his bride, the fair Margaret, 
who clung to her wounded husband like ivy to an oak, and 
would not be separated from him, even for a moment, that 
husband whom hving she had scarcely hoped to clasp 
again. Yes, they kissed her, and the queen threw about 
her a chain from her own neck as a parting gift, and 
wished her joy of so gallant a lord. 

“Alas! your Majesty,” said Margaret, her dark eyes 
filling with tears, “how can I be joyous, who must think 
of to-morrow?” 

Thereon Isabella set her face and answered : 

“Dona Margaret, be thankful for what to-day has 
brought you, and forget to-morrow and that which it must 
justly take away. Go now and God be with you both 1 ” 

So they went, the little knot of English sailormen, who, 
wrapped in Spanish cloaks, had sat together in the amphi- 
335 


336 


• MARGARET 


theatre and groaned when the Eagle struck, and cheered 
when the Falcon swooped, leading, or rather carrying, 
Peter under cover of the falling night to a boat not far 
from this Place of Bulls. In this they embarked unob- 
served, for the multitude, and even PetePs own squires, 
believed that he had returned with his wife to the palace, 
as he had given out that he would do. So they were 
rowed to the Margaret^ which straightway made as though 
she were about to sail, and, indeed, dropped a little way 
down stream. Here she anchored again, just round a 
bend of the river, and lay there for the night. 

It was a heavy night, and in it there was no place for 
love, or lovers^ tenderness. How could there be between 
these two, who for so long had been tormented by doubts 
and fears, and on this day had endured such extremity of 
terror and such agony of joy? Peter’s w^ound also was 
deep and wide, though his shield had broken the weight 
of Morelia’s sword, and its edge had caught upon his 
shoulder-piece, so that by good chance it had not reached 
down to the arteries, or shorn into the bone; yet he had 
lost much blood, and Smith, the captain, who was a better 
surgeon than might have been guessed from his tlyck 
hands, found it needful to wash out the cut with spirit 
that gave much pain, and to stitch it up with silk. Also 
Peter had great bruises on his arms and thighs, and his 
back was hurt by that fall from the white charger with 
Morelia in his arms. 

So it came about that most of that night he lay out- worn, 
half-sleeping and half-waking, and when at sunrise he 
struggled from his berth, it was but to kneel by the side 
of Margaret and join her in her prayers that her father 
might be rescued from the hands of these cruel priests of 
Spain. 


MARGARET WON OUT TO SEA 


337 


Now, during the night Smith had brought his ship back 
with the tide, and laid her under the shelter of those hulks 
whereof Peter had spoken, having first painted out her 
name of Margaret, and in its place set that of the Santa 
Maria, a vessel of about the same build and tonnage, 
which they had learned was expected in port. For this 
reason, or because there were at that time many ships in 
the river, it happened that none in authority noted her 
return, or if they did, neglected to report the matter as 
one of no moment. Therefore, so far all went well. 

According to the tale of Henriques, confirmed by what 
they had learned otherwise, the great procession of the 
Act of Faith would turn on to the quay at about eight 
o’clock, and pass along it for a hundred yai*ds or so only, 
before it wound away down a street leading to the plaza 
where the theatre was prepared, the Sermon would be 
preached, the Mass celebrated, and the ‘‘relaxed” placed 
in cages to be carried to the Quemadero. 

At six in the morning Smith mustered those twelve men 
whom he had chosen to help him in the enterprise, and 
Peter, with Margaret at his side, addressed them in the 
cabin, telling them all the plan, and praying them for the 
sake of their master and of the Lady Margaret, his'daugh ter, 
to do what men might to save one whom they loved and 
honored from so horrible a death. 

They swore that they would, every one of them, for 
their English blood was up, nor did they so much as speak 
of the great rewards that had been promised to those who 
lived through this adventure, and to the families of those 
who fell. Then they breakfasted, girded their swords 
and knives about them, and put on their Spanish cloaks, 
though, to speak truth, these lads of Essex and of London 
made but poor Spaniards. Now, at length the boat was 


22 


338 


MARGARET 


ready, and Peter, although he could scarcely stand, de- 
sired to be carried into it that he might accompany them. 
But the captain. Smith, to whom perhaps Margaret had 
been speaking, set down his flat foot on the deck and said 
that he who commanded there would suffer no such thing. 

A wounded man, he declared, would but cumber them 
who had little room to spare in that small boat, where he 
could be of no service, either on land or water. Moreover, 
Master Peter’s face was known to thousands who had 
watched it yesterday, and would certainly be recognized, 
whereas none would take note at such a time of a dozen 
common sailors landed from some ship to see the show. 
Lastly, he would do best to stop on board the vessel, where, 
if anything went wrong, they would be short-handed 
enough, who, if they could, must get her away to sea and 
across it with all speed. 

Still Peter would have gone, till Margaret, throwing 
her arms about him, asked him if he thought that she 
would be the better if she lost both her father and her 
husband, as, if things miscarried, well might happen. | 
Then, being in pain and very weak, he yielded, and Smith, 
having given his last directions to the mate, and shaken 
Peter and Margaret by the hand, asking their prayers for 
all of them, descended with his twelve men into the boat, 
and, dropping down under shelter of the hulks, rowed to 
the shore as though they came from some other vessel. 

Now, the quay was not more than a bowshot from them, 
and from a certain spot upon the Margaret there was a 
good view of it between the stem of one hulk and the bow 
of another. Here, then, Peter and Margaret sat them- 
selves down behind the bulwark, and watched, with fears 
such as cannot be told, while a sharp-eyed seaman climbed 
to the crow’s-nest on the mast, whence he could see over 


MARGARET WON OUT TO SEA 


339 


much of the city, and even the old Moorish castle that was 
then the Holy House of the Inquisition. Presently this 
man reported that the procession had started, for he saw 
its banners, and the people crowding to the windows, and 
even to the roof-tops; also the cathedral bell began to toll 
slowly. Then came a long, long wait, during which their 
little knot of sailors, wearing the Spanish cloaks, appeared 
upon the quay and mingled with the few folk that were 
gathered there, since the most of the people were collected 
by thousands on the great plaza or in the adjacent streets. 

At length, just as the cathedral clock struck eight, the 
“triumphant^’ march, as it was called, began to appear 
upon the quay. First came a body of soldiers with lances; 
then a crucifix, borne by a priest and veiled in black crape ; 
then a number of other priests, clad in snow-white robes 
to symbolize their perfect purity. Next followed men 
carrying images of wood or leather of some man or woman 
who, by flight to a foreign land or into the reahns of Death, 
had escaped the clutches of the Inquisition. After these 
marched other men in fours, each four of them bearing a 
coffin that contained the body or bones of some dead 
heretic, which, in the absence of his living person, like the 
effigies, were to be committed to the flames as a token of 
what the Inquisition would have done to him if it could — 
to enable it also to seize his property. 

Then came many penitents, their heads shaven, their 
feet bare, and clad, some in dark-colored cloaks, some in 
yellow robes, called the sanhenitOy which were adorned 
with a red cross. These were followed by a melancholy 
band of “relaxed” heretics, doomed to the fire or strangu- 
lation at the stake, and clothed in zamarras of sheepskin, 
painted all over with devils, and the portraits of their own 
faces surrounded by flames. These poor creatures wore 


340 


MARGARET 


also flame-adomed caps called corozasj shaped like bishop’s 
mitres, and were gagged with blocks of wood, lest they 
should contaminate the populace by some declaration of 
their heresy, while in their hands they bore tapers, which 
the monks who accompanied them rehghted from time to 
time if they became extinguished. 

Now the hearts of Peter and Margaret leaped within 
them, for at the end of this hideous troop rode a man 
mounted on an ass, clothed in a zamarra and coroza, but 
with a noose about his neck. So the Fray Henriques had 
told the truth, for without doubt this was John Castell. 
Like people in a dream, they saw him advance in his garb 
of shame, and after him, gorgeously attired, civil officers, 
inquisitors, and familiars of noble rank, members of the 
Council of Inquisition, behind whom was borne a flaunting 
banner, called the Holy Standard of the Faith. 

Now Castell was opposite to the little group of seamen, 
and, or so it seemed, something went wrong with the har- 
ness of the ass on which he sat, for it stopped, and a man 
in the garb of a secretary stepped to it, apparently to attend 
to a strap, thus bringing all the procession behind to a 
halt, while that in front proceeded off the quay and round 
the comer of a street. Whatever it was that had happened, 
it necessitated the dismounting of the heretic, who was 
pulled roughly off the brute’s back, which, as though in 
joy at this riddance of its burden, lifted its head and brayed 
loudly. 

Men from the thin line of crowd that edged the quay 
came forward as though to help, and among them were 
several in capes, such as were worn by the sailors of the 
Margaret. The officers and grandees behind shouted out, 
‘‘Forward! — forward!” whereon those attending to the 
ass hustled it and its rider a little nearer to the water’s 


MARGARET WON OUT TO SEA 


341 


edge, while the guards ran back to explain what had hap- 
pened. Then suddenly a confusion arose, of which it was 
impossible to distinguish the cause, and next instant Mar- 
garet and Peter, still gripping each other, saw the man 
who had been seated on the ass being dragged rapidly 
down the steps of the quay, at the foot of which lay the 
boat of the Margaret. 

The mate at the helm saw also, for he blew his whistle, 
a sign at which the anchor was slipped — there was no 
time to hft it — and men who were waiting on the yards 
loosed the lashings of certain sails, so that almost im- 
mediately the ship began to move. 

Now they were fighting on the quay. The heretic was 
in the boat, and most of the sailors; but others held back 
the crowd of priests and armed familiars who strove to 
get at him. One, a priest with a sword in his hand, slipped 
past them and tumbled into the boat also. At last all 
were in save a single man, who was attacked by three ad- 
versaries — John Smith, the captain. The oars were out, 
but they waited for him. He struck with his sword, and 
some one fell. Then he turned to run. Two masked 
familiars sprang at him, one landing on his back, one cling- 
ing to his neck. With a desperate effort he cast himself 
into the water, dragging them with him. One they saw 
no more, for Smith had stabbed him, the other floated up 
near the boat, which already was some yards from the 
quay, and a sailor battered him on the head with an oar, 
so that he sank. 

Smith had vanished also, and they thought he must be 
drowned. The sailors thought it too, for they began to 
give way, when suddenly a great brown hand appeared 
and clasped the stem-sheets, while a bull- voice roared: 

‘‘Row on, lads, I am right enough.’’ 


342 


MARGARET 


Row they did indeed, till the ashen oars bent like bows, 
only two of them seized the officer who had sprung into 
the boat and flung him screaming into the river, where he 
struggled a while, for he could not swim, gripping at the 
air with his hands, then disappeared. The boat was in 
mid-stream now, and shaping her course round the bow 
of the first hulk, beyond which the prow of the Margaret 
began to appear, for the wind was fresh, and she gathered 
way every moment. 

“Let down the ladder, and make ready ropes,” shouted 
Peter. 

It was done, but not too soon, for the next instant the 
boat was bumping on their side. The sailors in her caught 
the ropes and hung on, while the captain. Smith, half- 
drowned, clung to the stem-sheets, for the water washed 
over his head. 

“Save him first,” cried Peter. A man, mnning down 
the ladder, threw a noose to him, which Smith seized with 
one hand and by degrees worked beneath his arms. Then 
they tackled on to it, and dragged him bodily from the 
river to the deck, where he lay gasping and spitting out 
foam and water. By now the ship was traveling swiftly, 
so swiftly that Margaret was in an agony of fear lest the 
boat should be towed under and sink. 

But these sailor men knew their trade. By degrees 
they let the boat drop back till her bow was abreast of the 
ladder. Then they helped Castell forward. He gripped 
its rungs, and eager hands gripped him. Up he staggered, 
step by step, till at length his hideous, fiend-painted cap, 
his white face, whence the beard had been shaven, and his 
open mouth, in which still was fixed the wooden gag, ap- 
peared above the bulwarks, as the mate said afterwards, 
‘like that of the devil escaped from hell. They lifted him 


MARGARET WON OUT TO SEA 


343 


over, and he sank fainting in his daughter’s arms. Then 
one by one the sailors came up after him — none were 
missing, though two had been wounded, and were covered 
with blood. No, none were missing — God had brought 
them, every one, safe back to the deck of the Margaret. 

Smith, the captain, spat up the last of his river water and 
called for a cup of wine, which he drank; while Peter and 
Margaret drew the accursed gag from her father’s mouth, 
and poured spirit down his throat. Shaking the water 
from him like a great dog, but saying never a word. Smith 
rolled to the helm and took it from the mate, for the navi- 
gation of the river was difficult, and none knew it so well 
as he. Now they were abreast the famous Golden Tower, 
and a big gun was fired at them; but the shot went wide. 

“Look!” said Margaret, pointing to horsemen galloping 
southwards along the river’s bank. 

“Yes,” said Peter, “they go to warn the ports. God 
send that the wind holds, for we must fight our way to 
sea.” 

The wind did hold, indeed it blew ever more strongly 
from the north; but oh! that was a long, evil day. Hour 
after hour they sped forward down the widening river; 
now past villages, where knots of people waved weapons 
at them as they went; now by desolate marshes, plains, 
and banks clothed with pine. 

When they reached Bonanza the sun was low, and when 
they were off San Lucar it had begun to sink. Out into 
the wide river mouth, where the white waters tumbled on 
the narrow bar, rowed two great galleys to cut them off, 
very swift galleys, which it seemed impossible to escape. 

Margaret and Castell were sent below, the crew went 
to quarters, and Peter crept stiffly aft to where the sturdy 
Smith stood at the helm, which he would suffer no other 


344 


MARGARET 


man to touch. Smith looked at the sky, he looked at the 
shore, and the safe, open sea beyond. Then he bade 
them hoist more sail, all that she could carry, and looked 
grimly at the two galleys lurking hke deerhounds in a pass, 
that hung on their oars in the strait channel, with the 
tumbling breakers on either side, through which no ship 
could saiL 

“What will you do?” asked Peter. 

“Master Peter,” he answered between his teeth, “when 
you fought the Spaniard yesterday I did not ask you what 
you were going to do. Hold your tongue, and leave me 
to my own trade.” 

The Margaret was a swift ship, but never yet had she 
moved so swiftly. Behind her shrilled the gale, for now 
it was no less. Her stout masts bent like fishing poles, 
her rigging creaked and groaned beneath the weight of 
the bellying canvas, her port bulwarks slipped along 
almost level with the water, so that Peter must lie down 
on the deck, for stand he could not, and watch it running 
by within three feet of him. 

The galleys drew up right across her path. Half a mile 
away they lay bow by bow, knowing well that no ship could 
pass the foaming shallows; lay bow by bow waiting to 
board and cut down this Httle English crew when the 
Margaret shortened sail, as shorten sail she must. Smith 
yelled an order to the mate, and presently, red in the setting 
sun, out burst the flag of England upon the mainmast 
top, a sight at which the sailors cheered. He shouted 
another order, and up ran the last jib, so that now from 
time to time the port bulwarks dipped beneath the sea, 
and Peter felt salt water stinging his sore back. 

Thus, did the Margaret shorten sail, and thus did she 
yield her to the great galleys of Spain. 


MARGARET WON OUT TO SEA 


345 


The captains of the galleys hung on. Was this foreigner 
mad, or ignorant of the river channel, they wondered, 
that he would sink with every soul there upon the bar? 
They hung on, waiting for that Leopard flag and those 
bursting sails to come down; but they never stirred; only 
straight at them rushed the Margaret like a bull. She 
was not two furlongs away, and she held dead upon her 
course, till at last those galleys saw that she would not sink 
alone. Like a bull with shut eyes she held dead upon her 
furious course! 

Confusion arose upon the Spanish ships, whistles were 
blown, men shouted, overseers ran down the planks flog- 
ging the slaves, hfted oars shone red in the light of the dying 
sun as they beat the water wildly. The prows began to 
back and separate, five feet, ten feet, fifteen feet perhaps; 
then straight into that httle streak of open water, like a 
stone from the hand of the slinger, like an arrow from a 
bow, rushed the wind-flung Margaret. 

What happened ? Go ask it of the fishers of San Lucar 
and the pirates of Bonanza, where the tale was told for 
generations. The great oars snapped like reeds, the slaves 
were thrown in crushed and mangled heaps, the tall deck 
of the port galley was ripped out of her like rent paper by 
the stout yards of the stooping Margaret^ the side of the 
starboard galley rolled up hke a shaving before a plane, 
and the Margaret rushed through. 

Smith, the captain, looked aft to where, ere they sank, 
the two great ships, like wounded swans, rolled and fluttered 
on the foaming bar. Then he put his helm about, called 
the carpenter, and asked what water she made. 

“None, Sir,’’ he answered; “but she will want new tar- 
ring. It was oak against eggshells, and w^e had the 
speed.” 


346 


MARGARET 


“Good!’’ said Smith, “shallows on either side; life or 
death, and I thought I could make room! Send the mate 
to the helm. I’ll have a sleep.” 

Then the sun vanished beneath the roaring open sea, 
and, escaped from all the power of Spain, the Margaret 
turned her scarred and splintered bow for Ushant and for 
England. 


ENVOI 

Ten years had gone by since Captain Smith took the 
good ship Margaret across the bar of the Guadalquiver 
in a very notable fashion. It was late May in Essex, and 
all the woods were green, and all the birds sang, and all 
the meadows were bright with flowers. Down in the 
lovely vale of Dedham there was a long, low house with 
many gables — a charming old house of red brick and 
timbers already black with age. It stood upon a little 
hill, backed with woods, and from it a wide avenue of an- 
cient oaks ran across the park to the road which led to 
Colchester and London. Down that avenue on this May 
afternoon an aged, white-haired man, with quick, black 
eyes, was walking, and with him three children — very 
beautiful children — a boy of about nine and two little 
girls, who clung to his hand and garments and pestered 
him with questions. 

“Where are we going. Grandfather?” asked one little 
girl. 

“To see Captain Smith, my dear,” he answered. 

“I don’t like Captain Smith,” said the other little girl; 
“he is so fat, and says nothing.” 

“I do,” broke in the boy, “he gave me a fine knife to use 
when I am a sailor, and Mother does, and Father, yes, 
and Grandad too, because he saved him when the cruel 


MARGARET WON OUT TO SEA 347 

Spaniards wanted to put him in the fire. DonT you, 
Grandad?’^ 

‘‘Yes, my dear,” answered the old man. “Look! there 
is a squirrel running over the grass; see if you can catch it 
before it reaches that tree.” 

Off went the children at full pelt, and the tree being a 
low one, began to climb it after the squirrel. Meanwhile 
John Castell, for it was he, turned through the park gate 
and walked to a Httle house by the roadside, where a stout 
man sat upon a bench contemplating nothing in particular. 
Evidently he expected his visitor, for he pointed to the 
place beside him, and, as Castell sat down, said : 

“Why didn’t you come yesterday, Master?” 

“Because of my rheumatism, friend,” he answered. “I 
got it first in the vaults of that accursed Holy House at 
Seville, and it grows on me year by year. They were very 
damp and cold, those vaults,” he added reflectively. 

“Many people found them hot enough,” grunted Smith, 
“also, there was generally a good fire at the end of them. 
Strange thing that we should never have heard any more 
of that business. I suppose it was because our Margaret 
was such a favorite with Queen Isabella who didn’t want 
to raise questions with England, or stir up dirty water.” 

“Perhaps,” answered Castell. “The water was dirty, 
wasn’t it?” 

“Dirty as a Thames mud-bank at low tide. Clever 
woman, Isabella. No one else would have thought of 
making a man ridiculous as she did by Morelia when she 
gave his life to Betty, and promised and vowed on his be- 
half that he would acknowledge her as his lady. No fear 
of any trouble from him after that, in the way of plots for 
the Crown, or things of that sort. Why, he must have 
been the laughing-stock of the whole land — and a laugh- 


348 


MARGARET 


ing-stock never does anything. You remember the Span- 
ish saying, ‘ Kings^ swords cut and priests^ fires bum, but 
street-songs kill quickest ! ’ I should like to learn more of 
what has become of them all, though, wouldn’t you. Mas- 
ter? Except Bemaldez, of course, for he’s been safe in 
Paris these many years, and doing well there, they say.” 

“Yes,” answered Castell, with a little smile — “that is, 
unless I had to go to Spain to find out.” 

Just then the three children came running up, bursting 
through the gate altogether. 

“Mind my flower-bed, you little rogues,” shouted Cap- 
tain Smith, shaking his stick at them, whereat they got 
behind him and made faces. 

“Where’s the squirrel, Peter?” asked Castell. 

“We hunted it out of the tree. Grandad, and right across 
the grass, and got round it by the edge of the brook, and 
then ” 

“Then what? Did you catch it ? ” 

“ No, Grandad, for when we thought we had it sure, it 
jumped into the water and swam away.” 

“Other people in a fix have done that before,” said 
Castell laughing, and bethinking him of a certain river 
quay. 

“It wasn’t fair,” cried the boy indignantly. “Squirrels 
shouldn’t swim, and if I can catch it I will put it in a 
cage.” 

“I think that squirrel will stop in the woods for the rest 
of its life, Peter.” 

“Grandad! — Grandad!” called out the youngest child 
from the gate, whither she had wandered, being weary of 
the tale of the squirrel, “there are a lot of people coming 
down the road on horses, such fine people. Come and 
see.” 


MARGARET WON OUT TO SEA 


349 


This news excited the curiosity of the old gentlemen, for 
not many fine people came to Dedham. At any rate both 
of them rose, somewhat stiffly, and walked to the gate to 
look. Yes, the child was right, for there, sure enough, 
about two hundred yards away, advanced an imposing 
cavalcade. In front of it, mounted on a fine horse, sat 
a still finer lady, a very large and handsome lady, dressed 
in black silks, and wearing a black lace veil that hung 
from her head. At her side was another lady, much 
muffled up as though she found the climate cold, and 
riding between them, on a pony, a gallant looking little 
boy. After these came servants, male and female, six or 
eight of them, and last of all a great wain, laden with bag- 
gage, drawn by four big Flemish horses. 

“Now, whom have we here?’’ ejaculated Castell, star- 
ing at them. 

Captain Smith stared too, and sniffed at the wind as he 
had often done upon his deck on a foggy morning. 

“I seem to smell Spaniards,” he said, “which is a smell 
I don’t like. Look at their rigging. Now, Master Cas- 
tell, of whom does that barque with all her sails set remind 
you?” 

Castell shook his head doubtfully. 

“I seem to remember,” went on Smith, “a great girl 
decked out like a maypole running across white sand in 
that Place of Bulls at Seville — but I forgot, you weren’t 
there, were you?” 

Now a loud, ringing voice was heard speaking in Span- 
ish, and commanding some one to go to yonder house and 
inquire where was the gate to the Old Hall. Then Castell 
knew at once. 

“ It is Betty,” he said. “ By the beard of Abraham, it 
is Betty.” 


350 


MARGARET 


“I think so too; but don’t talk of Abraham, Master. 
He is a dangerous man, Abraham, in these very Christian 
lands; say, ‘By the Keys of St. Peter,’ or, ‘By St. Paul’s 
infirmities.’ ” 

“Child,” broke in Castell, turning to one of the httle 
girls, “run up to the Hall and tell your father and mother 
that Betty has come, and brought half Spain with her. 
Quickly now, and remember the name, Betty 

The child departed, wondering, by the back way; while 
Castell and Smith walked towards the strangers. 

“Can we assist you, Senora?” asked the former in 
Spanish. 

“Marchioness of Morelia, if you please ” she be- 

gan in the same language, then suddenly added in English, 
“Why, bless my eyes! If it isn’t my old master, John 
Castell, with white wool instead of black!” 

“It came white after my shaving by a sainted barber 
in the Holy House,” said Castell. “But come off that 
tall horse of yours, Betty, my dear — I beg your pardon — 
most noble and highly bom Marchioness of Morelia, and 
give me a kiss.” 

“That I will, twenty, if you like,” she answered, arriving 
in his arms so suddenly from on high, that had it not been 
for the sturdy support of Smith behind, they would both 
of them have rolled upon the ground. 

“Whose are those children?” she asked, when she had 
kissed Castell and shaken Smith by the hand. “But no 
need to ask, they have got my cousin Margaret’s eyes and 
Peter’s long nose. How are they?” she added anxiously. 

“You will see for yourself in a minute or two. Come, 
send on your people and baggage to the Hall, though where 
they will stow them all I don’t know, and walk with us.” 

Betty hesitated, for she had been calculating upon the 


MARGARET WON OUT TO SEA 


351 


effect of a triumphal entry in full state. But at that mo- 
ment there appeared Margaret and Peter themselves — 
Margaret, a beautiful matron with a child in her arms, 
running, and Peter, looking much as he had always been, 
spare, long of limb, stem but for the kindly eyes, striding 
away behind, and after him sundry servants and the little 
girl Margaret. 

Then there arose a veritable babel of tongues, punctu- 
ated by embracings; but in the end the retinue and the 
baggage were got off up the drive, followed by the children 
and the little Spanish-looking boy, with whom they had 
already made friends, leaving only Betty and her closely 
muffled-up attendant. This attendant Peter contemplated 
for a while, as though there were something familiar to 
him in her general air. 

Apparently she observed his interest, for as though by 
accident she moved some of the wrappings that hid her 
face, revealing a single soft and lustrous eye and a few 
square inches of olive-colored cheek. Then Peter knew 
her at once. 

“How are you, Inez?’^ he said, stretching out his hand 
with a smile, for really he was delighted to see her. 

“As well as a poor wanderer in a strange and very damp 
country can be, Don Peter,’’ she answered in her languor- 
ous voice, “and certainly somewhat the better for seeing 
an old friend whom last she met in a certain baker’s shop. 
Do you remember?” 

“Remember!” answered Peter. “It is not a thing I am 
likely to forget. Inez, what became of Fray Henriques? 
I have heard several different stories.” 

“One never can be sure,” she answered as she un- 
covered her smiling red lips; “there are so many dungeons 
in that old Moorish Holy House, and elsewhere, that it is 


352 


MARGARET 


impossible to keep count of their occupants, however good 
your information. All I know is that he got into trouble 
over that business, poor man. Suspicions arose about his 
conduct in the procession, which the captain here will re- 
call,’’ and she pointed to Smith. “Also, it is very dan- 
gerous for men in such positions to visit Jewish quarters 
and to write incautious letters — no, not the one you think 
of ; I kept faith — but others, afterwards, begging for it 
back again, some of which miscarried.” 

“Is he dead then?” asked Peter. 

“Worse, I think,” she answered — “a living death, the 
‘Punishment of the Wall.’” 

“Poor wretch!” said Peter, with a shudder. 

“Yes,” remarked Inez reflectively, “few doctors like 
their own medicine.” 

“I say, Inez,” said Peter, nodding his head towards 
Betty, “that marquis isn’t coming here, is he?” 

“ In the spirit, perhaps, Don Peter, not otherwise.” 

“So he is really dead? What killed him?” 

“Laughter, I think, or, rather, being laughed at. He 
got quite well of the hurts you gave him, and then, of 
course, he had to keep the queen’s gage, and take the most 
noble lady yonder, late Betty, as his marchioness. He 
couldn’t do less, after she beat you off him with your own 
sword and nursed him back to life. But he never heard 
the last of it. They made songs about him in the streets, 
and would ask him how his godmother, Isabella, was, be- 
cause she had promised and vowed on his behalf; also, 
whether the marchioness had broken any lances for his 
sake lately, and so forth.” 

“Poor man!” said Peter again, in tones of the deepest 
sympathy. “A cmel fate; I should have done better to 
kiU him.” 


MARGARET WON OUT TO SEA 


353 


“Much; but don’t say so to the noble Betty, who thinks 
that he had a very happy married life under her protecting 
care. Really, he ate his heart out till even I, who hated 
him^ was sorry. Think of it! One of the proudest men 
in Spain, and the most gallant, a nephew of the king, a 
pillar of the Church, his sovereigns’ plenipotentiary to the 
Moors and on secret matters — the common mock of the 
vulgar, yes, and of the great too!” 

“The great! Which of them?” 
f “Nearly all, for the queen set the fashion — I wonder 
why she hated him so?” Inez added, looking shrewdly 
at Peter, then without waiting for an answer, went on: 
“ She did it very cleverly, by always making the most of the 
noble Betty in public, calling her near to her, talking with 
her, admiring her Enghsh beauty, and so forth, and what 
her Majesty did, everybody else did, until my exalted mis- 
tress nearly went off her head, so full was she of pride and 
glory. As for the marquis, he fell ill, and after the taking 
of Granada went to live there quietly. Betty went with 
him, for she was a good wife, and saved lots of money. 
She buried him a year ago, for he died slow, and gave him 
one of the finest tombs in Spain — it isn’t finished yet. 
That is all the story. Now she has brought her boy, the 
young marquis, to England for a year or two, for she has a 
very warm heart, and longed to see you all. Also, she 
thought she had better go away for a while, for her son’s 
sake. As for me, now that Morelia is dead I am head of 
the household — secretary, general purveyor of intelli- 
gence, and anything else you like, at a good salary.” 

“You are not married, I suppose?” asked Peter. 

“No,” Inez answered; “I saw so much of men when I 
was younger that I seem to have had enough of them. 
Or perhaps,” she went on, fixing that mild and lustrous 


354 


MARGARET 


eye upon him, “there was one of them whom I liked too 
well to wish ” 

She paused, for they had crossed the drawbridge and 
arrived opposite to the Old Hall. The gorgeous Betty 
and the fair Margaret, accompanied by the others, and 
talking rapidly, had passed through the wide doorway into 
its spacious vestibule. Inez looked after them, and per- 
ceived, standing like a guard at the foot of the open stair, 
that scarred suit of white armor and riven shield blazoned 
with the golden falcon, Isabella’s gift, in which Peter had 
fought and conquered the Marquis of Morelia. Then she 
stepped back and contemplated the house critically. 

At each end of it rose a stone tower, built for the pur- 
poses of defence, and all around ran a deep moat. Within 
the circle of this moat, and surrounded by poplars and 
ancient yews, on the south side of the Hall lay a walled 
pleasaunce, or garden, of turf, pierced by paths, and 
planted with flowering hawthorns and other shrubs, and 
at the end of it, almost hidden in drooping willows, a stone 
basin of water. Looking at it, she saw at once that so far 
as the circumstances of climate and situation would allow, 
Peter, in the laying out of this place, had copied another 
in the far-off, southern city of Granada, even down to the 
details of the steps and seats. She turned to him and said 
innocently : 

“ Sir Peter, are you minded to walk with me in that gar- 
den this pleasant evening? I do not see any window in 
yonder tower.” 

Peter turned red as the scar across his face, and laughed 
as he answered : 

“There may be one for all that. Get you into the house, 
dear Inez, for none can be more welcome there; but I 
walk no more alone with you in gardens.” 





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which are reckoned the two most striking of his novels. A marked and 
skilful feature of ‘The Abbess of Vlaye’ is that it rises constantly towards 
a climax; indeed, the last part of the book is notably stronger than the 
earlier part. . . . One of the charms of Mr. Weyman s \vnting, empha- 
sized in this, his latest book, is its comprehension of detail in a few sen- 
tences. . . — Evening Post, New York. 


“ . . . Mr. Wejmian demonstrates once more that not only can tins 
kind of romantic novel be made conspicuously fascinating, but he estab-: 
lishes himself anew as easily the foremost writer of tlus kind of fiction. 
He has imagination and in unusual degree the art of investing a penod 
with atmosphere. This gallant tale has color, movement and spirit, and 
is weU told, with deft touches and dramatic situaUons, adroitly : in- 
aged.” — Times, Brooklyn. 


“ . . . The scene in the next to the last chapter, in which the abbess 
and her captain sit at table together, considering their plans, is developec 
by the author with all his art, and we count it among his most bnlhan 
achievements. ‘The Abbess of Vlaye’ is a first-rate piece of romanti. 
narrative. Its heroine is a type true to liistory, true to human nature^ 
and, in a sinister way, altogether fascinating.” — Trtbnne, New York. 

“. . . As in other romances based on French history, Weymai 
displays a thorough understanding of the time, the place and the peopl 
of which he writes. ‘The Abbess of Vlaye,’ indeed, is worth more as 
picture of the time than simply as a romantic story. Either phase, ho\)v 
ever, offers much of absorbing interest even to the most jaded reader c 
historical fiction.” — Transcript, Boston. ^ 


“. . . the most interesting that he has written for several years. • • • 

— Republican, Springfield, Mass. 

“. . . There is the charm of the unusual love story and abundance < 

exciting adventures, all wrought into a dramatic unity. The aut^r 
entirely at home, and makes us at home, in the story of the period. Si^ 
‘A Gentleman of France’ he has given us no better example of 1» 
ia\enV^~--Congregationalist. 

LONGMANS. GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOR: 


IN KINGS’ BYWAYS 

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN 

AUTHOR OF A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE,’' “ COUNT HANNIBAL,” ETC-, BTC. 


With a Fronifspiece by Georgre Varlan. Crown 8vo, cloth, 

ornamental, 81.50 


Capital short stories of France, written in Mr. Weyman’s well-known 
vein.” — Outlook, New York. 


. The tales and episodes are all so good that it is hardly fair to 
Mr. Weyman to say some are better than others.” — Times, Boston, 

“ . . . About this author’s stories there is a dash, and a nerve, and a 

swing, and a ' go ’ that no other surpasses though he has many imitators. . . . 
j Tlie opening story, * Flore,' is marvelously intense in plot, and its execution, 

I with a play of action and incident and thrilling situation that is incessant. Every 
*1 story in the book, for that matter, is a masterpiece." — Commercial, Buffalo. 


** The twelve stories . . . are full of that romantic charm which he has 

^1 communicated to his more elaborate works of historical fiction. . . . His 

j.j historical portraits are never overdone, they are always sketched with equal 
: restraint and precision. The book is abundantly entertaining.' 

— New York Tribune, 

Sf 

cdi " Stanley Weyman was the leader in the general revival of the historical and 
romantic novel, and he is still one of the best writers in this field. ‘ In 

Kings’ Byways’ are stories of different periods, but Mr. Weyman is always at 
'ihis best when dealing with Henry of Navarre or the generation just before. In 
Ijhis hands Old France lives again, picturesque and absorbing. All these stories 
J. . . are finished, artistic and gracefully told. The novelette ‘ For the 
pliCause’ is probably the most powerful thing Mr. Weyman has ever written." 

—New York World. 

... Mr. Weyman’s latest book, * In Kings’ Byways,’ is inevitably of 
the class that entertains. And that it does entertain is sufficient justification for 
Its writing.'’— Transcript, Boston. 

** It is unnecessary to say that these tales are worth the reading. They r(s- 
|iate with a quality that cannot be denied the highest praise, tales of love and 
irar and court and highway. Not one of them is dull, not one to be passed over 
|jg as not worthy of attention. All are dramatic, all good in form, and if one must 
selected from out the rest as best, ‘The House on the Wall’ is chosen." 

— Courier-Journal, Louisville, Ky. 


3J 


LONGMANS, GREEN, «fe CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 


LUKE DELMEGE 

Bjr P, A. SHEEHAN, Parish Priest, Donerailc, Co. Cofk 

AUTHOR OF •* MY NEW CURATE ** 


Crown 8vo, $1.50 


** This is an exceedingly powerful and absorbing book. Beginning with the 
true artistic quiet and restraint, it strengthens and broadens in power and inter- 
est until it moves on like a great procession. . , . It is a novel but it is more 

than that. It is a great sermon, a great lesson, almost a great drama. . . . 
We cordially commend ‘ Luke Delmege ' for its lofty purpose and thought, its 
adequate diction, and its high incentive . . . there is in it an occasional 
touch of humor which is very welcome and which is truly Irish in its nature. 
Altogether we consider ‘ Luke Delmege ’ the most notable religious novel that 
has been written within a year. ” — The Sun, Baltimore, Md. 

“ One of the triumphs among the works of fiction. . . . It is an extremely 

interesting tale of Irish life, full of profound erudition, and withal replete with 
incident and pathos. ” — Monitor, St. John, N. B. 

•“Luke Delmege ’ is in some respects a greater accomplishment than its 
predecessor. If it has not such exuberance of humor, its theme is more vital 
and the work itself more substantial It is a book which philosophers and se- 
rious students will enjoy almost as thoroughly as the chronic novel-reader. . . 
No other author has given us such a series of clerical portraits ... a story 
of which Catholics may well be proud. It is of classic quality, and generations 
hence it will be read, enjoyed, and lauded as one of the masterpieces of English 
fiction."— A ve Maria, Notre Dame, Ind. 

“ This is loftier work than ‘ My New Curate,’ and its influence will be stronger 
and grander. It is a wonderful story, with something in its passionate pleading 
for the supremacy of the mystical that recalls a mediaeval saint emerging from 
his solitude to denounce the world and to summon the few elect to the business 
of their salvation. . . . We freely pass upon the book the judgment that it 

is worthy to live with the very best we have of noble and uplifting fiction. ” 

—Catholic News, N. Y. 

•' Father Sheehan’s latest work is in many respects his best. It is a more 
pretentious literary effort and a more finished work than ‘ My New Curate.’ 
.... His characters are strong and lifelike. All things considered ' Luke 
Delmege ’ is one of the best things that have been published lately.’’ 

— Rosary Magazine, N. Y. 

*• We have just read ‘ Luke Delmege,’ and of all the books of the year, ser- 
mon or song or story, we put it first. ... In this new work he adds a new! 
glory to his fame — a place in the hearts of his countrymen forever. ’’ 

— Freeman’s Journal, N. Y. 


LON&MANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 FIPTH AVEHtfE, HEW YOEE 


GLENANAAR 

A NOVEL OF IRISH LIFE 

By the Very Rev. P. A. SHEEHAN, of Doneraile 

AUTHOR OF “ MY NEW CURATE,” “ LUKE DZLMXGE ” ETC. 


Crown 8vo. SI. 50 


It is a beautifvil story, full of the pathos and wit which, like mist and 
sunshine, so aptly combine to produce the rainbow glories of the Irish 
character.” — American Ecclesiastical Review. 

”... Is a good story of Irish life, with a fine thread of romance running 
through it. . . . If you like a good, strong, clean humor, and your heart still 
thrills to the tune of simple love, you will do well to read it.” 

— St. Louis Republic. 

”... Will especially appeal to those who know and love Irish life upon 
its native heath, though the well-told tale is so full of humor, pathos, and 
romance that it cannot fail to win the interest of every reader. . . . Into the 
story are written many of the most beautiful and characteristic traits of 
the Irish — their inextinguishable love of country, their devotion to family, 
their generosity, their courage, their purity of life, and, withal, their hatred 
of ‘an informer,’ even unto the third and fourth generations. . . .The 
book will awaken many a responsive chord, and will prove illuminating as 
well as interesting to those who have but a misty apprehension of things 
Irish. It is an illustration of the value of a book written from within, 
and coming hot from the heart.” — New York Times. 

”... It is a well- written tale. . . . Canon Sheehan gives his readers a 
' strong vital and intimate picture of the social life of the people in the two 
decades before the gfreat famine. In several ways ‘ Glenanaar ’ is as good 
as anything that has come from this author’s pen.” — Brooklyn Eagle. 

” This is probably the best book that Father Sheehan has yet written, in 
its pictures of Irish scenes; its portrayal of Irish character; and the pathos 
and tragedy which everywhere crowd its pages, relieved at times by flashes 
of true Irish humor. . . . ” — The Messenger. 

”... A splendid story full of humor and pathos. — New Yorker. 

” Canon Sheehan has given us an excellent picture of Irish life in his 
novel. ... In this, as in others of Canon Sheehan’s works, there is a close 
intimacy with the life of the Irish peasantry, and every side of the versatile 
Irish nature is so well depicted that we see the characters as they exist on 
Irish soil. It is a good book.”— Public Ledger, Phila. 


LONGMANS, GREEN & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 


BARHAM OF BELl ANA 

By W. E. NORRIS, 

AUTHOR OF ''matrimony," "mLLE. DE MERSAC/' ETC. 

Crown 8vo. $1.50. 


"The man who gives the book its title, a I'ich Tasmanian with a gricvaace^ 
against the world, has certainly about as disagreeable a way with him as could ' 
be imagined. But Mr. Norris seems to have made up his mind on this occasion" 
to tell a beguiling love story, and to let it go at that. . . . For the rest, this 

book is occupied with the most persuasively romantic transactions. ... The 
result is a capital story, written, moreover, with a literary finish which we have i 
long been accustomed to expect from this novelist. It is the kind of story to I 
win popularity, and we hope that the success it is pretty likely to achieve will I 
convince him of the wisdom of continuing in his present mood.” — N. Y. | 
Tribune. 

"The reader is genuinely sorry when the last page is reached. . . . Th^ 

book has an added charm from the novelty of its locality. ... is a thor-j 
oughly enjoyable book. Mr. Norris must ‘do it again,' and the next time hej 
must permit us to tarry longer with him in that fascinating, topsy-turvy Eng- 
land lying south of the equator.” — New York Times. , 5 

“ . . . We have a story that is quietly effective without indulging in? 

dramatic extravagance. . . . The characters are few in number, but tkey> 
are exceedingly well drawn. . . . It is just the one to entertain during an 
quiet hour after the cares that infest the day have departed.” — Beacon, Boston.'- 


ORRAIN i 

By S. LEVETT-YEATS. 

AUTHOR OF "the CHEVALIER d'aURIAC," "tIIE HONOR OF SAVELLI," ETQi 


Crown 8vo. $1.50. 


" . . . it is one sure to be read from cover to cover, if the light hoid«| 
out to burn. . . . One is irresistibly led on through the crowding dangers F 
of a troublesome time, to that final general duel which ends the work. It is a* 
tale of France with a Huguenot heroine, as lovely as she is fearless, while the^ 
invincible hero belongs to the Old Faith. . . . Altogether, an unusually 

charming and absorbing historical romance.” — Kansas City Star. 

" .... is well told and thrilling. So, too, are various incidents and 

passages that precede and lead up to this effective climax. And not the least 
evident art of ‘Orrain’ makes some of the participating characters, notably the 
queen, the vidame and the king’s favorite, so real that they arouse sharp dis-' 
taste or sympathy and linger in the memory long after the book has been^ 
closed. It is a stirring story, well prepared, well considered, well written- It- 
may be warmly commendea to those who are pleased with fire, action an<y 
romance.” — Record-Herald, Chicago. a 

"One of the new novels of the present publishing season which is justly diso 
tinguished above nearly all of its fellows. ... It possesses universal merit^ 
both as a story and as literature, being a well-told tale which attracts interest 
at the outset and holds it through a .series of exciting adventures.” . . 

Courier, New York. ]■ 

. Into the details of the plot, of which there are many, it is not! 
necessary or advisable to go, for this could not be done without spoiling the! 
pleastire many will find in reading an exceptionally good story. . . . It is^ 

safe to say that anyone who has enjoyed ‘Marguerite de Valois,’ ‘Chicot, thej 
Jester,’ or ‘The Forty-five Guardsmen’ will enjoy ‘Orrain,’ ” — Public Opinion."! 


LONGMANS, GREEN & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK.^ 


DONNA DIANA 

By RICHARD 6AGOT 

A.VTHOR OF “ CASTING OF NETS," “ A ROMAN MYSTERY,** ITC. 

Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top, $1.50 


“ Richard Bagot’s fiction has always striking qualities, and his latest novc^ 
Donna Diana,’ is by far his best ... as a story it is sure of success.’* 

—The Living Age, Boston. 

“ The story is well told, full of color and vivid scene, ” 

—St. Louis Republic. 

“Whether Mr. Richard Bagot has really penetrated the recesses of Roman 
Catholic consciousness we may not know, but certainly if what he writes is not 
true, it has a marvelous appearance of it. . . . Of the story, as a story, we 

have space to say only that it is well told, and holds the interest for its own sake 
unflagging to the end.”— Churchman, New York. 

“ A brilliant and charming romance.” — Scotsman. 

. A Roman story with a vigorous and powerful setting and an 
abundance of plot and intrigue. It is a mighty good story, well told, and there 
are very few books of this season that will have as large and delighted a circle 
of readers.” — Herald, Saratoga Springs, N. Y. 

“ . . . Equals Marion Crawford's books in the capable and certain 
handling of his characters in the picturesque but tortuous highways of the 
Roman world of to-day. He gives a detailed view of the domestic customs and 
social life of the aristocracy and tells at the same time an absorbing love story.** 

—Item, Philadelphia, Pa. 

“ . . . It is an absorbing story, containing a constant conflict between 
bigotry and open-mindedness, between evil and good. Mr. Bagot takes his 
readers into the homes of his Roman friends, and with much care and detail 
describes their domestic and social life, such as is rarely given to a foreigner t* 
observe. ’*— Eagle, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

, There is not a particle of let-up in interest from cover to cover. 
As one enters the city gates via the first chapter, he is loth to quit the interest- 
ing company of friendships he makes, both secular and churchly, until he knows, 
as far as the author reveals it, the destiny of each of the personages who par- 
ticipate in the making of a capital story.” — Transcript, Boston. 

“ . . . Mr. Bagot’s substantial knowledge of Roman life has contributed 

a great deal toward giving vitality to the social groups depicted in the pages (A 
‘ Donna Diana,* and there is much else that gives the romance considerable 
human and artistic effect ’’—Baltimore Sun, 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE. NEW YORK 


THE MANOR FARM 

By M. E. FRANCIS (Mrs. FRANCIS BLUNDELL) 

AUTHOR OF “ PASTORALS OF DORSET,” “ FIANDKR’s WIDOW,” ETC. 

With Frontispiece by Claud C. Du Pre Cooper. Crown 8vo« 
cloth, ornamental, $1.50 


•' Quaint humor of the richest quality is written in the pages of Mrs. Blun- 
dell’s new book. . . . When two great and well-to-do cousins plan the 

welfare of their names needs the marriage of their children, the trouble begins. 
No one has yet shown greater skill than our author in weaving the green and 
gold pattern of young life. The growth of these two young people from child- 
hood, the betrothal, the almost necessary hitch in affairs, for such is human 
nature, the very natural solution, Mrs, Blundell has made delightful, humorous, 
and wholly artistic. It is the finest of character drawing, for the men and women 
are not too proud to be human, nor bad enough to be uncompanionable. " 

—Living Church, Milwaukee. 

“ A real treat is in store for the readers of ‘ The Manor Farm.* . . . It is 

a r "ive and picturesque story of English. country life, with just enough dialect 
to show that the people are genuine country folk.” 

— Churchman, New York. 

“ . . .A delightful story, told in a delightful way. It is what you may 

call a complete story . . . giving you quaint, rich and wholesome descrip- 

ion of men and things on an English farm. It is one of the few novels of the 
5 ear worth passing around the family — or, perhaps, better yet, reading in the 
aisembled family."— Unity, Chicago, III 

“ Wholesome and sweet as the scent of growing clover is the atmosphere of 
this charming pastoral tale of English yeoman life Written in the easiest and 
most unaffected style it narrates with much animation and humor the fortunes 
of two branches of a certain family of farmer folk. . . . The ‘ love interest ’ is 
as artless and innocent as it is engaging.”— Independent, New York. 

” A pretty rustic love story . . . The story is thoroughly readable and 

clean."— N ew York Sun. 

“ . . . The story is excellently written. The English peasants who figure 

in it speak an odd local dialect that gives originality, never unnaturalness to the 
style ... the story ends pleasantly, as such an idyl should. The book 
rings true, and deserves a cordial reception.” — Record-Herald, Chicago. 

“ This is a wholesome romance of the Dorsetshire country. It concerns the 
endeavors of two farmer cousins to bring about the marriage of their son and 
daughter for the welfare of the old manor farm. 1 he plot, which is a simple one, 
is developed with naturalness and humor . . . her pictures of the homely 

ife among the farms and dairies are delightful,” — The Outlook, New York. 


LONGMANS. GREEN, & CO.. 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 


FIANDER’S WIDOW 

By M. E. FRANCIS (Mrs. FRANCIS BLUNDELL) 

AUTHOR OF “THE DUENNA OF A GENIUS,” “YEOMAN FLEETWOOD,” ETC 

Crown 8vo, ornamental cover, $ 1 .60 

Is an altogether delightful story. ... If more of such novels were 
written, pure, wholesome and bracing, redolent of everything that is pleasant 
to the senses, the world would be all the better." — Bristol Mercury. 

“ An idyll of Dorsetshire life, as natural and fresh and wholesome as the old 
stone dairy in which some of the scenes take place. . . . The book is redo- 

lent of the charm of English country life, pure and sweet, as it were, with the 
scent of the gorse and the breath of the kine, of all things that are wholesome 
and homely and good. " — Commercial Advertiser, New York. 

“ One of the most charming of recently published works of fiction. . . . 

The plot has an appetizing freshness about it, and more than once the unexpected 
happens.” — Chicago Evening Post. 

“ Here is a story of life in rural England well worth reading, because of the 
curious social conditions it describes, and yet these, though well set forth, are 
only incidental to the main theme, which is a delightful study, involving much 
humor and no tragedy, of the belated coming of love to an earnest, warm- 
hearted woman. It is brightly, lightly done, and yet holds the attention and 
contains sufficient to provoke thought.” — Public Ledger, Phila. 

“A truly delightful bucolic comedy. The theme might almost be called 
farcial, but the treatment is delicate, quaint and graceful. Old Isaac, the rustic 
bachelor who narrowly escapes matrimony from a sense of duty, is a Dorset- 
shire original and deserves to rank with the best rustics of Hardy, Blackmore, 
and Philpotts. The story is prettily told and is wholesomely amusing. Mrs. 
Blundell is always careful in her literary workmanship ; this tale will add to the 
popular appreciation of her work.” — Outlook, N. Y. 

“An altogether charming tale. . . . There is not a dull page in it, and 

there are continuous pages and chapters of the brightest humor.” 

— Living Church, Milwaukee. 

“ A beautiful little story. One is at a loss for an epithet adequate to its 
charm, its simplicity, its humor, its truth.” — Brooklyn Eagle. 

“ A bright little pastoral comedy. . . . The widow is a rare combination 

of business sense and sentiment, a combination which insures her both prosper- 
ity and happiness. Reversing the usual order of love and life she postpones 
romance until she is able to entertain her Prince Charming in truly royal style. 
The sly efforts of one Isaac Sharpe to rid himself of the burden of matrimony 
arc genuinely amusing.” — Public Opinion, N. Y. 


I,ONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.. 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK- 


LYCHGATE HALL 

A Romance 

By M. E> FRANCIS (Mrs. FRANCIS BLUNDELL) 

AUTHOR OF “PIANDER’S WIDOW,” “PASTORALS OF DORSET," ** THS 
MANOR FARM," “ CHRISTIAN THAL," ETC. 

Crown 8vo, $1.50 


“The pleasant merrymakings, the romantic duel-fighting lovers, the intro- 
duction of highway robbery as a minor theme, and the ruined priory as setting 
for the whole —all these things read with a reminiscent quality that is attractive. 
The story is told in a pleasant, narrative style, which reads with delightful ease. 
The descriptions of the English countryside will charm the reader with the 
fresh, exquisite beauty they represent so adequately. ... A book in which 
there is nothing to crkicise and much to praise. . . .” 

— Public Ledger, Philadelphia. 

“ . . . Mrs. Blundell is an adept in holding her readers' interest to the 

last page. Dorothy’s mystery remains unsolved until the last chapter, and at 
no point can one guess which of her suitors will win the prize. In the meantime 
we are getting a spirited, historically accurate view of English country life two 
hundred years ago, and are constantly amused by side-lights on the perennial 
human drama. The character drawing is unusually good for a romance, and 
the atmosphere of the times is skillfully sustained. . . .” 

-Record-Herald, Chicago. 

"... Remarkable for its charming descriptions of rural life and of 
nature. . . — The Churchman. 

‘‘Mrs. Blundell is always entertaining. Her plots are well contrived, she 
has understanding of character and deftness in exploiting it ; she has humor, 
moreover, and unfailing good taste. In ‘ Lychgate Hall ’ she has gone back 
for her material to the days of Queen Anne, and has succeeded in reproducing 
much of the spirit of the period, as well as much quaintness of phraseology. 
She recounts a romance of the countryside, one full of mystery, with a high-born 
girl posing as a dairywoman in the heart of it. Many of its situations are^ 
dramatic — witness the scene where the beautiful Dorothy is stoned as a witch 
by the villagers — and it ends with an agreeable distribution of rewards to the 
deserving.” — New York Tribune. 

“A well-written book, with quite a Charlotte Bronte flavor to it. . . 

— Commercial Advertiser, 

“A well-sustained romance of English life. . . . A delightful story. . . .” 

— The Outlook. 

“A mysterious and beautiful young woman, who is passionately loved by a 
mysterious stranger and a rural nobleman, are the principals of this stirnng 
romance of the ‘ good old times’ in England . . . one of the comparatively 

few novels w'hich create a desire to read it through without stopping, the story 
being so well told that interest is aroused at the very outset and maintained 
until the ending.” — Chronicle-Telegraph, Pittsburg.. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 


WILD WHEAT 

A DORSET ROMANCE 

By M. E. FRANCIS (MRS. FRANCIS BLUNDELL) 

Crown 8vo. $1.50 

“It has more of passion and sorrow in it than most of her romances 
but it is all the stronger for this, while there is enough of the humorous 
and cheerful to balance the whole. The love story is sweet and whole- 
some.” — T he Outlook. 

“ . . . There are many dramatic passages in the story, and some 
strong character drawing ; and it is set against a background of English 
country life that is drawn in with real feeling and unusual picturesqueness.” 

— Evening Post, Chicago. 

“ This is an excellent story of rural life in England . . . one lays the 
book down feeling that one has read a pure love story that is really worth 
while. The character drawing is admirable, especially in the two chief 
figures of Peter and Prue, who really stand before one as human beings.” 

— Transcript, Boston. 


SHAKESPEARE’S CHRISTMAS 

AND OTHER STORIES 

By A. T. QUILLER-COUCH (-Q.’’) 

Crown 8vo. With 8 lliustrations. $1.50 


** A new volume by ‘ Q.’ is alwajrs a delight. Somehow, there is more 
• heart ’ to his stories than in those of most writers. His pathos as well as 
his fun seem more sincere, and to have their roots down deeper in human 
nature.” — The Globe, New York. 

“We recommend those who like entertaining yams to read ‘Shake- 
speare’s Christmas.’ ’’—New York Tribune. 

. , . As good a collection of stories as its title promises . . . 
told in the author’s most humorous and ingratiating style.” 

— New York Times. 

“ In the title story we have a tale that is inimitably told and one that 
rings with merriment. We have here stories of adventure, a romance 
is worthy of more space to its tellings and a bit of a love story. A 
first-class collection of short stories in this latest book of ‘ Q.’ ” 

—Sun, Baltimore. 


liONGMANS, GREEN & CX)., 91-03 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 


STELLA FREGELIUS 

A Tale of Two Destinies 

By H. RIDER HAGGARD 

AUTHOR OF “king SOLOMON’S MINES,” “SHE," ETC. 


Crown Svo, $1.50 

. while Stella Fregelius is a wide departure in style it is oLe of 
the most interesting books Mr, Haggard has ever given us . . . the 

struggles of the young inventor to perfect the aerophone are only incidental to a 
story of remarkable psychological force. Queer it may be called in a sense, 
but certainly this is one of the most absorbing narratives that Mr. Haggard has 
ever written. . . Chronicle-Telegraph, Pittsburgh. 

“ . . . The story is full of the charm of expression that made Haggard 

so popular. It is full of human interest throughout. There is nothing duU 
about the story, and the whole world of literature will read it with interest and 
be entertained by it.”— T he Worcester Spy. 

“ It is, in fact, radically different in scheme and treatment from 

Mr. Haggard’s previous stories, but for all that it bears the stamp of his genius 
and will prove fascinating to all readers. It is called a ‘ tale of three destinies,* 
and is at once mystical, philosophical, and full of ‘ human interest. ’ 'There are 
touches of humor, also, and altogether the story is worthy of Mr. Haggard.” 

—Democrat and Chronicle, Rochester. 

“ . . . The story is of absorbing interest. Like most of this author's 

novels the style is brilliant, easy, and clear. The narrative will of necessity be 
followed with breathless interest from beginning to end. The plot is well con- 
structed. Mr. Haggard controls the evolution of the story with the true art that 
leaves an impression of absolute naturalness.” — N ew York American. 

“ . . . To give even the complete outlines of his new story . . . 

would require many columns for the simple catalogue of the varied experiences 

of the splendidly portrayed characters. The story is of absorbing interest. 
Like most of this author’s novels, the style is easy, brilliant, and clear.” 

—Mail, Halifax, N. S,, Can. 

“ 'The main idea of this new story by one of the most daring inventors of the 
modern tale of adventure is a novel one, the enlistment of the services of science 
in the search for a knowledge of the hereafter, the employment of an instrument 
for the transmission of one of the earthly senses in the opening up of communi- 
cation with the spirit world . . . the invention which serves him in these 

pages is that of a wireless telephone, which is to call back the departed across 
the chasm. . . . Mr. Haggard has written a story that is much of a nov- 

elty from him, and, truth to tell, it is far more interesting than would be another 
tale of Jerusalem or South African wonders from his pen.” 

—Mail and Express, New York. 


LONGMANS, GKlfiEN, & CO.. 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 


PEARL-MAIDEN 

A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem 
By H. RIDER HAGGARD 


With 26 Full-page Illustrations by Byam Shaw 
Crown, 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.50 


“ . . . The story is of absorbing interest. It is very seldom 

that one runs across an historical novel, the plot of which is so ably 
sustained. Something interesting happens in every chapter. There 
are some delightful love passages, for no novel can be considered 
perfect without a little of that. The story has zest and is full of 
adventure. The style is brilliant, easy and clear. The narrative 
will be followed with breathless interest. The book is beautifully 
printed, handsomely bound, and profusely illustrated. . . .” 

— Eau Claire Leader, Wis. 

‘ . . . It is one of the best books that Mr. Haggard has 
written for several years. ... It contains two or three scenes 
of uncommon strength ; the arena scene, with the Christian martyrs, 
m the opening pages, the sale of Roman slave girls, near the close. 
It is not a book which can be read through in a brief half hour or 
two, and it does not permit the attention to wander. Altogether it 
is a book which deserves a wider notice.” 

— Commercial Advertiser, New York. 

“ . . . there is vigor, charm, and doubtless historical value 
in the pictures which Mr. Haggard draws of dramatic events and 
splendid pageants that will never lose interest and significance to a 
world yet shaken by their influence.” — O utlook, New York. 

“ . . . ‘Pearl Maiden’ must be ranked among his bes<- 
books. It is full of adventure, of terrible dangers met on the battle- 
field and elsewhere ... is from beginning to end absorbing. 
Never has Mr. Haggard been more inventive or more skilful. His 
plot is well constructed, and he controls the evolution of the story 
with the art that leaves an impression of absolute naturalness. We 
must add a good word for the numerous illustrations by Mr. Byam 
Shaw. They are cleverly drawn with the pen, but they are even 
more to be praised for the freshness and variety with which they 
have been designed.” — N ew York Tribune. 

“ . . . ‘ Pearl Maiden ’ is a more convincing story than any 
he has written about imaginary kingdoms , . . there is no 

reason why it should not rival the popularity of ‘ She ’ and ‘ King 
Solomon’s Mines,’ and in any event it will be sure to find many fas- 
cinated readers. ... It is the best story Mr. Haggard has 
written in recent years.”— R epublican, Springfield, Mass. 


LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK 


THE SPIRIT OF BAMBATSE 

A ROMANCE 
By H. RIDER HAGGARD 

AUTHOR OF “SHE,” “KING SOLOMON’S MINES,” ETC. 

With 8 Full-page Illustrations 
Crown 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1,50 


. . marked by splendid imaginative power and by a narrative 

skill that carries the reader on to the end with no slackening of interest. 

. . . The fascination of the story lies in the rapid succession of exciting 

incidents which follow the setting out of Clifford and Meyer and Benita on 
this search for the ancient treasure. . . The book may be recommended 
to any one who likes a thrilling romance of adventure.” 

— Chronicle, San Francisco. 

■ “ H. Rider Haggard has written another of his fascinating Central 

African stories about the search for buried treasure. . . has woven a 

charming romance around the perilous adventures incident to the search.” 

— Town and Country. 

“. . . it is a finely thrilling yarn, with much of the old dash and 

fervor and weird fancy that popularized the earlier work in ‘ She,’ ‘Ayesha’ 
and the others. . . The book opens with a romantic love episode, a 

shipwreck, a thrilling rescue and an unansw'ered question. It ends — ^just 
* as it should to be thoroughly absorbing and entertaining.” 

— Chicago Daily News. 

. . it has enough of the old fascination to hold the average reader 

spellbound to the end. The love interest is introduced by a very effective 
shipwreck scene off the African coast, in which the lovers are separated, 
the heroine later going with her father into the Matabele country to find a 
vast treasure hidden by some dying Portuguese.” 

— Record-FIerald, Chicago. 

“. . . an excellent story. . . one to hold the reader spellbound. 

Shipwreck and battle, treasure-seeking and wonderful feats of clairvoyance, 
combine with other elements nearly as striking to make up a whole that 
must please the most particular of those demanding excitement in their 
fiction. . .” — News, Newark, N. J. 

“. . Effects are obtained by a series of climaxes which, despite their 

melodramatic quality, frequently rise to the dignity of real thrills. The man ^ 
who likes his interest kept at white heat and who doesn’t mind having his 
feelings harrowed a bit will find in this book plenty of the diversion and 
entertainment he seeks. . .” — New York Times. 

“. . . Mr. Rider Haggard tells his story vividly. His native Africans 

and their fights are picturesque ; the hypnotism is not overdone. . . 

There is much more excitement and coherence and go in the story than 
purveyors of adventure tales have offered us of late.” — S un, New York. 


LONGMANS, GREEN & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 


628 























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